Between Two Cities
by Forfie
Summary: Vol. 4: The emanate return of the Enclave have the Brotherhood of Steel moving to ensure that the Capital Wasteland is defensible. The Enclave are to the south, there is an unknown power to the north and BIOS is smack dab in the middle.
1. A Time to Act

I do not own Fallout, the Fallout universe, nor any characters originating from the games of Fallout in publication or unreleased. No profit is being generated. I am just a man telling a story.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 1: A Time to Act

Operative Quintus Schieber, who preferred to go by his family name or Quin, stood at the entrance of a dilapidated building with Brotherhood of Steel Knight Jamie Bors. They moved inside the old governmental building, built originally in the Twentieth Century and redone in the Twenty –First to look more akin to the style of the D.C. metro area by removing the glass walls for those of marble, concrete, and columns. The electrical grid for the building seemed to not be working as the only light came from the fission generators the Enclave science team brought in before their untimely demise. Their bodies filled the building as they did outside in the large parking lot around their vertibirds. The Operative and Knight turned on the head lamps of their T45d power armor, originally commissioned and issued by the United States of America and recovered two hundred years after the Great War in the sub levels of the building known as Pentagon. Dust, mold and debris were all over the building and even floated in the air when ever their armored boots hit the ground.

Behind a semi – circular reception desk stood an illuminated golden eagle on a blue background. The Enclave had specifically positioned two flood lights to make it glow, however the golden eagle emblem had worn throughout the two hundred years the building stood in the wastes. The Geiger counter built into the power armor warned the Brotherhood of Steel members that there were low levels of radiation still in the building. At the reception desk the Enclave agents and soldiers had placed a terminal hooked up to a generator. There were two bodies behind the desk, both killed by the same weapon that flash fried everyone outside the building. Several soldiers in Advanced Power Armor Mk II lay on the ground and debris in odd positions, marking the spot where they had died from whatever powerful weapon was hidden in this place.

The sickening burnt skin still smelled as it wrapped tight around the skeletal remains. Schieber looked to Bors, who nodded, as they both drew their weapons and made sure they were loaded. Trip also went weapons hot, though found no immediate targets.

"This place…why are there so many Enclave," asked Schieber as Bors walked over the terminal on the desk and pulled the dead Enclave officer off the keyboard and chair.

The terminal was working independently from the long dead operator for two years, attempting to decrypt data, "this place has got to be like… Mariposa or the Citadel. The encryption software is so strong that Enclave tech hasn't cracked it yet."

"Trip, do a scan of the building," ordered Schieber as he calmly scanned the hallways to see some Enclave flood lights and more bodies.

"First floor, entrance level, visitor center and gift shop; second floor, human resources and accounting; third floor, administration and public conference rooms," recited trip as if reading from a brochure.

"What is this building, Trip," asked Bors as he interrupted the robot, uncertain how this robot knew so much he reverted to his distrust of any remote resemblance of sentience in machines.

"National Security Agency Headquarters, Fort Meade, Maryland," replied the robot in its programed light feminine voice.

"How can you tell all this, Trip," asked Schieber curiously as Bors was thinking of shooting the augmented Mister Gutsy.

"Floating Gate Metal – Oxide- Semiconductor Field – Effect Transistor, the recorded information was placed in the building for synthetic identification," replied the robot as it read the stored digital packets left in the building as an identifying tag.

"What information does this Floaty Gate thing give you access too, Trip," asked Bors as he lowered his weapon a little.

"General history of the National Security Agency, weekly cafeteria schedules, and general information," replied Trip as it read the data packets, "all information concerning surveillance, cryptanalysis, cryptography, and the United States of America's information systems are classified to non – NSA agents and personnel without proper security clearance."

"How big is this facility," asked Schieber, as he pushed Bors to sit down as the Knight was upset with the machine.

"The complex is two million, six hundred and thirty – five thousand, five hundred and ninety – one square feet," replied the Trip.

"Trip, how can that be, this building does not have enough rubble around it to suggest it used to be that large," Schieber said as the robot hovered silently, "Trip, answer me."

"Information is classified," answered the robot.

"Waste of circuits and bolts," yelled out Bors in frustration.

"Trip, is there anyone one left alive in the building," asked Quin as he held Jamie back from taking a swing at the hovering robot.

"Yes, the embedded chips of several staff members seem to be active and showing health signs," said the robot as it used the still active NSA system to locate internal personnel similar to emergency response rescue operation, "who do you have a specific inquiry about?"

"We would like to meet them," said Schieber politely, hoping that being nice would make things work his way but forgetting that the machine was not swayed by human temperament.

"Querying local host…querying…querying…local sever host Secure Transmission Unite designation two was unable to connect," answered the robot as it swiveled on its thruster.

"Where would be the communication room," asked Schieber with a sigh.

"Pay phones are located to the right hand side of the entrance hall," the robot was monotone in its response.

"No, you stupid machine," Bors was snide and angered.

"Trip, is there any place in this building that would be like a control center," asked Quin as he too was getting agitated with the robot.

"Information classified," replied Trip in its light feminine voice.

Quin rolled his eyes as he looked to Bors, "foot reconnaissance?"

"Room – to – room, door – to – door," answered Jamie Bors as he made a threatening motion to the machine that just hovered there, "stay put, Trip, you fucking tin can on a string."

"Jamie, you were okay with it a few days ago," commented Schieber as they both walked down the illuminated left hallway.

"The machine needs to get upgraded…or downgraded, yes, that's what it needs…no voice transmitter at all," grumbled Bors as he checked his rifle was loaded for the umpteenth time, Schieber still only had his side arm, "it's like Valincourt programmed it to piss me off."

Opening a double door and checking the room to see it was a public cafeteria, the Operative looked upward, "oh thank the spirits," exclaimed Schieber as he rushed off to a pantry and ripped the cabinet door off the hinge, "the shelf life of cram is over two hundred years, right?"

"Take a dose of Rad – X before you eat that crap," warned Bors as he tossed the limited amount of meds they had to the Operative.

"Beggars can't be choosers," answered Quin as he removed his helmet and popped a pill, tossing another can of cram to Bors, "eat up, we'll need the energy."

Despirt the radiation readings throughout the building, Bors and Schieber removed their helmets and art the aged irradiated cram. It would hurt them in the long run, but for the moment they did not care. The cram filled their bellies, prolonging their starvation. Beverages were available, irradiated water and warmed irradiated Nuka Cola; the coffee machine was busted. Sighing in fulfillment, they both stood up and put their helmets on and returned to searching room – by – room down the other corridor.

They came to an elevator shaft; Schieber used his crowbar to pry it open. The elevator was stopped on the top most possibly floor three levels above without power. Emergency breaks held it in place, there was a maintenance ladder built into the elevator shaft. The new servo in Bors' power armored leg allowed him to move down the ladder at the same speed of Schieber. They found the first underground entrance several stories below the main building. Quin swung out his leg to get a bit of a footing on the ledge and pried open the door with his crowbar as he wrapped his arm through the ladder.

Through the small gap, Quintus Schieber wedged his body to open the two shutters wider. Jamie climbed in with the Operative's assistance, the hallway they were in looked like it came from the lower portions of the Citadel. Gray concrete, metal walkways and exposed pipes were the décor, along with tons of dust and cob webs. The two operatives moved down the hallway, occasionally checking the side rooms to see what was inside. They soon found a stairwell and proceeded to check floor – by – floor. They found the first bodies on the third floor underground; the remains were nothing more than bones and moth eaten clothes. The remains began to increase, the size of the complex must have been vast to hold this many people at one time, by the fifth floor below the ground they found something more than bone and cloth.

Squatting in the middle of the hallway was a feral ghoul. The torn up blouse and skirt indicated that it once was a female human; there was even an identification lanyard around her, its, neck. But like all feral ghouls, she had lost her feminine characteristics, her hair, her mind, and most importantly her ability to function as a sentient being. She had been trapped in these lower levels for over two hundred years. Bors ended her suffering with a laser bolt to her radiation addled brain.

They continued for another three floors, having ended the suffering of ten feral ghouls, when a ring could be heard from an office that had power. Looking at each other, the two operatives followed the sound of the ring that came from a terminal. Bors and Schieber pushed the rolling chair with a skeleton in it out of the way and looked at the communication terminal that blinked and rang. The young Operative hit the enter key and the screen came to life in shades of green. Starring back at them was a grotesque face of a ghoul, though Schieber felt no ill will to the creatures his partner thought of them as remnants from the old world that should not be seen or heard.

"Thank the Lord," growled out the ghoul as he tried to straighten his bow tie and pat down his remaining strands of hair, "I've been waiting for the military to secure headquarters since October twenty – third."

"Err…," said Jamie as he looked to Quin, clearly wondering what was wrong with this ghoul.

"Lieutenant, I am sorry for having to put the facility in extreme lockdown, I hope it hasn't hindered your team too much. I am rerouting power to the elevator and sending it to your floor," continued the ghoul as he typed in the counsel, "god damn separatists, if the commies weren't bad enough, you know what I mean, Lieutenant? The elevator is programmed to take you to the forty – seventh floor, shouldn't take too long, much faster than taking the stairs… I look forward to seeing you in person."

The terminal went into a standby mode, Bors took off his helmet, scraggily and sweaty hair everywhere, "what the fuck is with the shuffler?"

"I think we just found out who was responsible for all the dead Enclave soldiers, officers and agents upstairs," Quin said in reference to the ghoul on the terminal.

"Okay, let's say the shuffler took out a whole Enclave outfit on his own," conceded Knight Jamie Bors, the sarcasm and disdain clear in his voice, "what the fuck did he use?"

"I think we're about to find out," said Schieber with a shrug, adding after a pause, "hopefully not on the same end of the barrel as those Enclave corpses."

Cristano Bael, Star Paladin of the east coast Brotherhood of Steel and operational leader for BIOS, was sitting in a private meeting with Elder Owyn Lyons. The Elder seemed reluctant to take the meeting, although he did send out his personal assistant to make the meeting private. The report from Point Lookout had arrived, it sat on the coffee table in front of the chair that held Lyons' ass. It stated that there was no way to confirm or deny the presence of Enclave in the Chesapeake. Likewise, the lack of news from the Commonwealth and its Ambassador frustrated matters even worse. The good faith between the government from the north east and the Brotherhood was getting strained at the worst possible time.

The Brotherhood of Steel needed to confirm the feasibility of the Commonwealth's claim that the Enclave was patrolling the Chesapeake with unknown intentions. Star Paladin Bael was becoming more than a thorn in Lyons' side. Sitting back in his arm chair, the Elder pondered as to what inspired the man sitting on the couch before him. He resigned himself that it was an error of pride and ego, common among those before their waning years. Cristano was a leader, but the man needed would soon find that leaders could still learn from their positions.

"Elder Lyons, when you created Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services a year ago, you put me in charge of its field operations. Leaving two of my men out in the wilderness, it irks me," Cristano Bael kept an even tone, "Knight Ban was able to end Paladin Nivi's entry in the Great Codex after twenty years of rusting and rotting at the bottom of the Mall trench. Please, sir, do not make me wait twenty years for confirmation of Schieber and Bors."

Lyons brushed behind his ear, "Star Paladin, your loyalty is something to be commended. Likewise, your tenacity is fierce and befitting your position. However, we cannot devote the operations of the Brotherhood from the current issue of the Enclave," Lyons did his best not to falter in his tone, "I am not the person you should come to with these requests. The Chain that Binds works both ways, and that particular link between both of us is Head Paladin Bruce."

"I do not have any issue with communicating with Head Paladin William Bruce; he is still reading files to catch up with operations and is not in a place to make such a weighted decision," stated Bael as he tried to minimalize his breaking of the Chain that Binds, "the direct communication and decisions I receive from you, Elder Lyons, are better than any middle man."

"Star Paladin, how you run BIOS is up to you and Scribe Yearling; but in this building, you will follow the Chain that Binds," ordered Lyons firmly, "is there anything else that needs to be talked about?"

"No, Elder Lyons, I will report to Head Paladin Bruce from here on," agreed Bael as Elder Lyons dismissed him.

With purpose, Bael strode to Head Paladin Bruce's temporary residence in the medical center as he was still recovering from his wounds suffered at the hands of the super mutants. Wearing ancient fatigues from an armed service long gone with a rank of Colonel with the silver Eagle's facing forward to his neck. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows as multiple intravenous lines were hooked up into his forearms and his chest was unbuttoned to allow Sawbones to monitor his heart rate. William Bruce was still strapped into his gurney to prevent him from rolling out of it or losing his balance. The Head Paladin nodded to the Star Paladin as he mindlessly rubbed the still fresh stumps. Bael stood at attention in front of his superior but did not move pass the doorway as he waited to be invited in.

"How have my Initiates been, Star Paladin," asked Bruce as he beckoned the operational leader of BIOS into the medical station.

"They're all first class Operatives now," answered Bael as Bruce held onto some files, "none more so than Quintus Schieber."

"Are you here to follow up on what happened in the meeting," questioned Bruse as his IV lines rattled a little.

"Knight Bors is of great stock, both men are assets to the Brotherhood of Steel," answered the Star Paladin as he stared into Bruce's light blue eyes," Schieber survived DuPont Circle…"

William Bruce slammed the file down on the rolling table near his gurney, "three of us survived that ambush at DuPont Circle…those Initiates that escaped were extremely lucky."

"I cannot fathom what you and the other two had to endure," empathized Bael as he turned the topic back to his lost Operatives, "but don't let Schieber and Bors go through the same fate."

"The Elders have already ruled on this, I am sorry, Bael," said Bruce with sincerity, "ad if you attempt to use the black operations team with Operative Roe, expect repercussions."

Upset that none of the leaders of the Brotherhood of Steel were willing to risk a rescue party because of the Enclave zeitgeist, he asked tersely, "is there anything else, if I may inquire, that you wish to impart on me, Head Paladin Bruce?"

"Let me make it clear, Star Paladin, I do not agree with the Elders decision but I am bound to respect it, up hold it, and enforce their codes," said Bruce with a mournful frown but a firm voice, a painful ache came to his stumps causing him to rub them as a remembrance that his legs no longer extended that far, he swore, "damn it."

"The mercenary team would be highly useful for a recovery mission, "wheedled Bael.

"I already said no," answered Bruce with a straight face, "the plan you and Yearling have put forward seems to be gaining merit among the Elders. I feel it is, pardon the irony, the best foot forward for discovering the true intentions of the Enclave. You have read the report, right?"

Bael held out his hand for the file asking to see it; reading it quickly, a surprised expression appeared on his face because Yearling had put his name on the brief while the majority of it where her own ideas, "and we are to embark on a covert naval expedition how? Head Paladin, I was not full abreast of this brief."

"That is for you and Yearling to discuss, but I would recommend that you become more up-to-date on this brief," suggested Head Paladin Bruce.

Bael nodded and asked permission to leave, William Bruce granted it to him. He hurried past all of the Brotherhood of Steel members, wasting no time as he left the Citadel. The sun hung lazily in the early afternoon sky shinning a hazy light on the plaza. Cristano moved with purpose, he could not waste time as two men's lives hung in the balance and the scribe assigned to work with him was producing reports with his name signed to them. He burst into the Alexandria and moved to Yearling's office, it had been a long time since he had used his own office but he knew that Janice preferred the solitude of hers. Cristano Bael faced Janice Yearling, her sandy brown hair was tucked behind her ears allowing more of her brown eyes to be seen.

"You wrote a plan without including me and put my name on it," he asked and her eyes betrayed no sense of shock.

"I asked you for your input and you decided it would be best to focus on Schieber and Bors," answered Yearling, her voice cold as ice, "your thoughts were not on the current mission at hand. I take it Head Paladin Bruce approved of the plan?"

"That is beside the point; my name was added to that report without my consent," seethed Bael as he placed his hands on her desk at a shoulder length apart, "we need to put forward a unified front."

"Then make it a unified position," scolded Janice as she flipped papers, her eyes shifting to them and away from Bael, "take hold of this report as Bruce favors it and push it forward so that BIOS is the organization for gathering intelligence not just on locals but foreign threats as well."

Bael bit his tongue in frustration, "I'll go out there on my own, then."

"Do that and you should consider operational command of BIOS removed from your command," warned Yearling as she licked her finger and turned a page, "I've found out from Scribe in the Order of the Quill that Head Paladin Bruce has put in a request for you to be transferred to the Citadel for a long period stay. I would think promoting William Bruce to Head Paladin was part one of the Elders' plan to curb your influence, relocation to the Citadel would be part two."

"What the fuck are you on about, Scribe," Bael clenched his hands around the desk he was bracing.

"You are traveling on thin ice, Cristano, you have been using BIOS as it were your own personal fiefdom," replied Yearling in a snarl at the Paladin's inability to see the truth in front of him, "your actions were brazen and open for Rothchild and Lyons to view on a daily basis. You pursued your own interests before putting those they have for the Brotherhood first."

"So this is the Elders' attempt to cage me in like a savage animal," Bael clenched his hands into fists as he pulled away from the Scribe's desk, "as simple leash with not do for me, they must cage me like a mongrel in the Citadel as two of my men are out there in the wilderness?"

"Rothchild and Lyons look to keep you close by, if you are to be on a leash tied up in their backyard, so be it. Even mongrels can bark, growl and bare their teeth," reasoned Yearling as she looked back up into Bael's eyes, "the report calls for your black operations team to be put in play, but Knight Captain Galeas will be free."

"To send one person out there would be suicide, to recover Bors and Schieber a team would need to be assembled," reasoned Bael as he paced in front of the desk, "this could be good work for Actaeon and LaCroix."

"Actaeon is just a Scribe, not suited for actual operations," said Janice as if pigeonholing the man she used as a personal assistant, "I have him working on infiltrating the Plymouth Aristocracy at the moment."

"They will not be leaving any time soon," reasoned Bael as he continued to pace, "do you have that dossier on Actaeon's bounty hunter?"

"Here," said the Scribe as she pulled out a file from her locked draw.

"He'd be of use too," thought Bael aloud as he read over the dossier compiled by Actaeon.

"I'd venture so, as he assisted to the acquiring of Harkness. Likewise, he lead to making contacts within Paradise Falls," Yearling had committed all her files to memory, "but we won't get any free work from Warrick, as he is a bounty hunter."

"Our branch is cap strapped as it is," rejoined the Star Paladin as he closed the dossier, "we could barter, but I'd be damn if I let a local get his or her hands one some advanced technology."

"Then we trade something few individuals get for free, unless their towns and tribes see fit to it," replied the Scribe in a flash of genius, "I've checked the local markets and water is trading at a fair rate."

"Like what Bigsley has with Dukov and his side business," pondered the Star Paladin, "I want LaCroix to convince Bigsley on being our personal water bank from now on."

"I do not see why you would put her on intimidation tasks," Yearling was flippant in her response, "it is not like her skill set has been flexed to its full use."

"Let us hope that there continues to be less of a need for a wet work operative," Cristano's face was serious yet calm, "this Samuel Warrick is a known bounty hunter, slaver, and assassin. I'd want someone able to keep tabs on him and have the skills to take him out in full stealth without any remorse."

"She may be trained in that kind of ruthlessness, but LaCroix is not to that standard yet," shared Yearling on her opinion with a frown, "I'll collect the operatives for a meeting. Knight Ban and Operative Newton are scheduled to be rotated back to the Alexandria. I would still like for them to keep contact with their acquaintances in the Commonwealth."

"That would be the best, going forward," said Bael as he stood up and began to leave, "your plan is a good one, the Elders and others are looking favorably upon it."

The Bounty Hunter, Samuel Warrick, had walked all the way from Paradise Falls to Canterbury Commons in less than two days. Paradise Falls had given him his caps, food, drink, and sex. However, Warrick had found he wanted more in life, by a little. Unlike others, this 'more' he sought wasn't power, caps, women, or influence; many men had sought them and gained them before him. The 'more' he was looking for was one that lead to peace of mind. His old soul needed to right the scales to gain peace.

He only came to this conclusion mid – thrust into Carolina Red's quim, but great thoughts and ideas come at odd times. Once finished, he cleaned himself and moved on, looking to do one right thing as a test to see how it felt. His boots took him to the Commons, where he had made a brief stop before the attack on the Republic. Samuel had a plan in mind, one he needed to work on by himself.

Warrick brushed his forehead as he took off his leather brimmed hat, "do you know who runs the Republican brick shope," he asked of Joe Porter as he took a seat.

"Phineas? Good man, from what I gather," answered Joe as he took Warrick's order, "what do you need to know?"

"Seems like you are the man in the know," Warrick said he drank the cold beer.

"Depends on the one who's asking," Porter was having second thoughts about giving this man information.

"A person that can be a friend to the Republic," said Samuel as he sipped his beer, "where is there a decent place to rest my head?"

"Canterbury Hotel, run by Simon and Jackie Waters," answered the bartender and cook as he pointed down the street to a refurbished building, "one bedroom starts at seventy – five caps, two rooms at hundred and twenty – five caps. In room bars and the whole nines."

"Thank you for the information, Joe," said Samuel as he threw in some extra caps with the tab, "tell Phineas that if he'd like to talk I'll be up at the Canterbury Hotel."

"Sure thing, who should I say to ask for at the front counter," Joe Porter said as Warrick slid him a few more caps, "great to know, Mister."

Henry Fleet, mayor of Grayditch, sat at a small table with four other people in a conference room near his office. Three eyes ago, Fleet was hunting mirelurks for money, but no he found himself leading the second most populated city in the Wasteland. There were only rags – to – riches stories in the wasteland, no one was really born into wealth like that from history before the Great War. Even Tenpenny, the richest in the known wasteland, had no family to pass on his wealth. You can't take it with you was an old world saying, and death came too easily. This meeting was to focus on continuing wealth of the region and how to sustain it for future generations.

The four other people around the table were various representatives from towns and cities. Seagrave Holmes was the nominated representative of Rivet City's council. He was a shrewd man that is a merchant of electronics, spare parts, and custom repairs. When residents of Rivet City needed holes patched in the bulkhead and equipment that needed to be fixed. The council nominated him with two thirds in a vote of confidence to promote the interests of Rivet City.

A woman named Vala represented the new community of Friendship Heights. She had a short bob of hair that made her like a brunette q-tip in leather. She wore leather mercenary clothes, reminiscent of the raider past held by most residents. Boadicea sent Vala because she was quiet, observant, and had a naturally high level of common sense. Friendship Heights had a particular importance since its survival from the super mutant threat in becoming the salvage capital of the northern D.C. ruins. Recently, a small group of vault dwellers were making the community more sustainable in trade for parts needed to maintain Vault 101.

Mister Burke himself was representing Alistair Tenpenny and Tenpenny Tower. Tenpenny brought the richest population to the talks, the amount of collective cap based wealth was held in the tower. Burke's demeanor was anything but pleasant, he treated all those who lived out of the walls of Tenpenny Tower likedirt and thought them made of lessor meat than him. Disdain for them was etched on his face, but he went where Tenpenny paid him to go. His freshly pressed suit and cologne splashed skin were all calculated accessories to mark him as superior to those that sat around the table.

Megaton had sent an unusual representative to the meeting, Billy Creel. Moriarty forced Creel to attend and represent the interests of Megaton by threatening Maggie's life. The young girl was in the care of Manya, but as Moriarty put it, 'anything could happen on the streets of Megaton'. Creel had a mind for trade and the mayor of Megaton wanted to increase trade since Canterbury Commons had shifted caravan routes to her streets. Billy might have been a one – eyed man that was half insane from stress but he knew the caravan routes, old and new, unlike anyone to date. Moriarty wished he could attend such a meeting on trade and the future of the cap in the Capital Wasteland, however he felt that if left Megaton that the former raiders would take it for their own.

"Gentlemen and lady, thank you for showing up today and thank your town and city leaders for sending you here to Grayditch, "this meeting has occurred because of countless letters passed between your respected community, town and city leaders. The economic concerns as of late affect all of our communities, prosperity is on the rise but there is a paramount need to maintain this prosperity. Regulation like this has not existed in our lives, even the value put on caps is subjective to the town, city, tribe, and individual.

"At the end of these talks, hopefully we will have an agreement that will continuously set the rate of the cap," Fleet sat back in his chair as he looked to the eyes in the room, "an agenda has been set for discussion and if you'll take the time to review it we can move forward."

"The agenda seems to be prepared and organized appropriately," commented Burke with a frown, surprised by how these poor scum suckers were able to prepare documents.

"There are no specific areas for caravans," remarked Creel with noted concern.

"It will be listed under transportation rights," replied Fleet as he pointed an area from the agenda.

"Transportation is a wide topic, are we to suspect Drayden to be included latter in a sweetheart deals," Vala mentioned not looking at the agenda, unfortunately she was illiterate.

"Grayditch has merchants that use ships as a way of trading and importing goods," Fleet's reference went to the smaller merchants and Judge Joost Van Dyke's maritime trading company, "that is why the topic area is broad."

"There is a difference between water and land travel," alleged Billy Creel as he fought off a small tick and fidget.

"We can add it under transportation, an amendment to the agenda has been proposed," said Fleet as he wrote on the paper, "do we have an agreement;" Seagrave and Creel nodded, Vala shook her head and Fleet looked to Burke, "how do you move Mister Burke?"

"I abstain," he answered tersely.

"Seeing as I motioned for the change, consider it passed," ruled Fleet as he did a flourishing a notation on his agenda.

"Wait, why should it pass if two people didn't agree to passage," asked Vala stubbornly.

"I didn't put my vote either way," replied Burke with a frown, "but three votes would make a simple majority, dear. You do understand those words, don't you? Majority is the group with more people and the simple is you."

_This is going to be a long week_, thought Henry Fleet as a fight ensued between Vala and Burke, _clearly some rules on voting would need to be established_.

Elder Lyons waited in the loading zone of the old Nuka Cola Plant. One of the first things he did when he awoke form his coma was to share his knowledge of Arthur 'Artemis' Wilderman with Scribe Janice Yearling. She seemed nonplussed by the information, even though she had learned about the spy in Henry Casdin's circle of traitors. Zimm and JR had written a detailed report on the spy and Lyons' use of him prior to the formation of BIOS. He instructed her on how to make the dead drop and scheduled the face – to – face meeting they were presently waiting to start.

Scribe Yearling was with her Elder. She didn't feel safe with the meeting set up in the open but went along with it for Lyons. She had asked Head Paladin Bruce to lend three Knights from patrol detail of the Citadel to secure the area. Elder Lyons didn't know the Knights were present. They were hidden away from the meeting room but with viewpoints to see anyone coming from a distance. Four raiders had already lost their lives because the Knights felt they were too close. Scribe Janice Yearling kept a mobile communication device that linked to the Knights' units so that she heard reports from what they saw. The device was produced by Scribe Vallincourt so that Scribes could communicate with power armored Brotherhood members while on long station assignments; a new reality for the Scribes since Reginald Rothchild became an Elder.

The broken delivery trucks that once brought soft drinks to a nation provided cover and obstruction from the harmful rays of the sun, thus protecting the Elder. Walking from the north east across the long strip crumbling pavement was a single member of the Outcasts. Claimed Enclave armor, gathered either by the Lone Wanderer or taken from dead corpses after engagements with the Enclave, was painted red over the black along with Casdin's symbol. Enclave armor was horned and their colors were red and black; that after the large scaled assault against raiders in the Fairfax Ruins and the encounter in Megaton, the locals gave them a new name.

"I can see why the tribals call them demons," reported a Knight through the communication unit.

"One traitor approaching, wearing Enclave MKII advanced power armor, laser rifle equipped," reported in another, "standard issued AER9, ma'am, good to see some things haven't changed."

"Allowing the traitor to proceed," replied the original Knight.

Defender Arthur Wilderman walked past the dead bodies of raiders and noted the scorch marks left by laser weapons fire; he approached the meeting spot and barked out tersely, "who the hell is this?"

"Artemis, it is good to see you again. This is Scribe Janice Yearling, logistical head of BIOS and now your new handler," said Owyn Lyons as he leaned back in the wheel chair and Arthur Wilderman removed his power armor helmet.

"I'm sorry, Elder Lyons, things have been tense at Independence," Wilderman pulled off his recon helmet to allow his sweat soaked brown hair to dry in the Wasteland air, "it's good to see you alive, sir. Those Operatives in Megaton gave me a bit of a shock."

"How was the news taken in the Outcast camp," asked Elder Lyons with a keen interest.

"Protector Casdin gave you a nice eulogy and had even kinder words for the new Elder Rothchild," Artemis was sarcastic in tone, "needless to say he had to eat his words when we got news you were alive and well. He has been trying to reach any of the western chapters using some captured technology of the Enclave, but they all seem to have gone dark…."

"Probably because the majority of Scribes stood on the side of Elder Lyons," said Yearling as she noted the ominous report on the western chapters, "do you think you could sabotage this Enclave radio?"

"Not a chance in hell, Casdin is paranoid ever since Defender Sibley's mutiny at Bailey's Crossroads Outpost," the event had been forwarded by the Lone Wanderer before his disappearance, Artemis continued, "Protector McGraw seems to be the voice of reason and moderation. He isn't a local lover though. He appreciated the help of the Lone Wanderer when he saved his life."

"James' son has a knack for doing the right action even if it is unorthodox," commented Lyons in reference to deaths of five Outcasts there were former members of the Brotherhood of Steel.

"He definitely left an impression on McGraw for saving his skin and completing the virtual simulation," Artemis cracked his neck, "the man is still gruff and rough as a true Paladin. We haven't heard word about Harkness, is he in your…hands?"

"BIOS thanks you for your assistance in the matter, but I hope you understand when we tend not to share sensitive information between operatives," Yearling replied as Artemis nodded, the Scribe was being cautious.

"His technology was… it floored the specialists. The robotic prostheses have been used for our injured men at For Independence. Getting these former Knights and Paladins up on their feet have nearly raised our numbers by a quarter," Artemis confirmed as he took off the scope from his laser rifle and tossed it Yearling, "check it, Scribe."

Yearling looked through the scope to see that the view finder could zoom automatically and switch into thermal and infrared ranges of viewing, "I would like copies of these schematics. How did the Outcasts produce these?"

"We've been securing technology, so having the parts to make them was easy," answered Artemis as he checked the area, "I think we've spent too much time talking. I need to get back to the Fairfax Ruins."

"Get me more information on former Paladin McGraw, I need to know how he feels physically, emotionally, and psychologically," ordered Janice Yearling as Arthur Wilderman nodded.

The Outcast put on his recon Helmet and then power armor helmet, he replied in a cold metallic voice, "for glory, honor, and the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Steel be with you, Knight Artemis," replied Elder Lyons to Defender Arthur Wilderman as he walked back into the world of the Outcasts as a Brotherhood of Steel mole.

Star Paladin Cristano Bael had gathered Knight Captain Galeas, Scribe Actaeon and Operative Anna LaCroix. In front of them was a map of the old world before the bombs fell. The Operation was to be called Recupero. Their task set for them by Bael was the recovery of Quintus Schieber and Jamie Bors, alive or not, and discover the cause for their vertibird to be lost.

Knight Captain Galeas raised the first question, "who will be stationed at the Alexandria while we are away?"

"Knight Michael Ban and Operative Hannah Newton will be rotated back to the Alexandria," disclosed Bael with a sigh, _along with myself between here and the Citadel_, he added jovially, "we'll try not to leave a mess."

"Why do we need this bounty hunter," LaCroix voiced but thought Samuel Warrick would be a waste of time.

"He has great knowledge of the Capital Wasteland and his tracking ability will lead to finding the missing operatives faster," responded Actaeon with a yawn, "but the man is… he is slow to trust."

"Why can't we just use Harkness, the SRB seemed to have him trained him adequately enough," Anna suggested with a raised eye brow.

"Harkness is an asset of BIOS, but not an operative," countered Bael with a narrow stare, "he is not be trusted or in the depths of our intelligence. That is why he cannot currently , the Alexandria is the best place to protect him from the Commonwealth."

"Where does that leave me," inquired Actaeon as he thought that possibly he and Harkness were on similar levels in BIOS.

"You've been transferred to us, but you are not a full fledge operative, yet," replied Bael as he sat down on the desk in front of them, "finish this recovery and you'll be a step closer to being a full member."

"Will there be a vertibird travel to the Republic," probed Knight Captain Galeas.

"No, this mission is off the books, you will be on your own," replied Star Paladin Bael as he cleared his throat, "you will have to proceed on foot. This is a recovery mission, but a secret one at that, so no overt connection to the Brotherhood of Steel will be allowed. That means no power armor."

"What about radiological suits and laser weapons," asked Galeas as she thought ahead to provisions, "Rad – Away or Rad – X?"

"If you can carry it, do so," said Bael, "but this is a BIOS only mission, not for common Brotherhood of Steel knowledge, so do not expect to radio in support, or get assistance from any localized bases. You will be completely on your own."

There was a knock on the door to the small hotel room in Canterbury Commons. Samuel Warrick walked to the door and peered through a small hole he made by a concealed gunshot using a pillow and an ancient plastic soda bottle. The Bounty Hunter opened the door and an old man walked in. Phineas was the brick and mortar merchant from the Republic. He was over sixty and wore a sweaty bandana over his wispy white hair and his clothes were a simple cloth tunic held together by a waist belt. Phineas had managed the ledger and large bulk sales, most notably with Canterbury Commons, along with the younger salesmen that worked the stall. He was an old caravaneer and an even older friend of President Rosie, who was one of the first to assist with the new direction of the town when Dave left.

"Heard you wanted to speak to me," his voice soft and his words truncated.

"I do, or more precisely, I have something for yehr President," expressed Warrick as he went to check on the street below through the window.

"If this a bulk sale of bricks then we could have done it at my stall," droned the man as he appraised the bounty hunter up and down, "I don't like to be dicked around, mister."

"This is about caps," professed Warrick as he turned to Phineas, "and a chance for you to gain a reprisal for last week's attack."

"An attack on Paradise Falls is not worth it, it would be suicide, heck even the Brotherhood of Steel refuses to do it," asserted Phineas firmly.

"There is a way to hurt them," emphasized Samuel Warrick as he rubbed his fingers together with his thumb, "and that information will be left for the Republic to do with it what it will for ten thousand caps."

"Ha, only ten thousand," Phineas rejoined sarcastically.

Sam Warrick just cracked his neck as he stared the man down, his hands at his side, "I aim dead on target, Bricker. Now, yah can send my message to yehr President, otherwise I have other places to share this information with."

"I'll tell her, just don't expect the answer you want," warned Phineas as he walked out of the hotel room.

_Perhaps being a slaver would be far more profitable_, thought Warrick as he locked the door and looked out the window to watch Phineas leave the hotel, _what am I going to do with your Republican Phineas, what am I going to do with you?_

Quintus Schieber and Jamie Bors were shocked at the hospitality of the ghoul resident of the NSA, a lonely cryptologist named Fredrick Niche. He seemed quirky, eccentric even, because he would stop talking mid – sentence though his thoughts still leaping forward. Fred tried to make the men he thought to be United States soldiers from two hundred years ago. He offered them chairs that sat behind desks that made up a place called the Web once the central convergence of all telecommunications monitoring in the USA. Apparently, the building found by the Operatives was once the information nexus of the former United States of America and Fredrick Niche was its long term caretaker.

"It has been a long time since I've entertained guests," said Niche as he nervously adjusted his bow tie.

"Have you been down here the whole time," Schieber was curious and concerned at the same time.

"Two hundred and four years, nine months, and ten days," responded Niche as he patted his rotted patchy skull, "there were ten thousand, eight hundred and fifty – six of us at that point. I sometimes see my colleagues, but they don't seem too often."

"When did you turn," Bors' voice was cold and metallic through the power armor helmet.

"I have never wavered a bit in my devotion to the good ol' United States of America," Fred held a hand of his heart, taken aback by Bors' actuations, he began to sing, "Oh! Say can you see by the dawn's early light,…"

Bors and Schieber winced at the ghouls attempt to sing, "Mister Niche, Fred, there is no…no need to prove your loyalties. We, we are not from the United States…"

"But you wear their uniform," thought Niche as he allowed his ideas to leap forward, "but the chain of succession, there was no one left? All ten thousand, eight hundred and fifty – six of us gave our livelihoods to keep this country running. Our last report before the majority of radio communication was that the chain of command was intact."

"The Great War destroyed most of everything, our group is preserving what we can," alleged Bors as he licked his lips under his helmet, "in a twofold manner, one from humanity using advanced technology and secondly by preserving the production and function of technology."

Fredrick nibbled his bottom lip, "the United States still must exist, I receive updates from agents still in place and automated units that are still active."

"After two hundred years, if they aren't ghouls, I don't know how else they survived for so long," replied Bors as he decided to remove his helmet, "our group originated on the West Coast."

"Under whose command? In my spare time I've been able to read the archived logs to know of the military break down that occurred and the federal and civil response," informed Niche as he fumbled with the button on his sweater vest.

"The Brotherhood of Steel was founded by the great High Elder Roger Maxson," enlightened Knight Bors with pride.

"That mutineer at Mariposa Military Base? We heard his radio transmissions, but by that time we were already deciphering information of the opening attack," Niche looked at the two men, "our concerns were ensuring the continuation of the United States of America's leadership. We failed, I gather. We paid little attention to Captain Roger Maxson, the west coast was lost an hour before the east coast…"

"You did what you could, Mister Niche," Schieber removed his helmet as he reassured the ghoul and Bors shook his hair to disperse the sweat.

"So when did this…compound first get hit," Bors was inquisitive as to the higher than regular levels of radiation around the surface.

"I don't think I'm allowed to have this conversation," Fredrick Niche was more nervous than before, Schieber thought he was acutely paranoid on the topic.

"Are you worried about us being like those crispy critters outside," asked Bors with concern as he noticed Niche's nervous frown, "the Brotherhood have fought them on two coasts. Both times we have won. We have assisted in the building up a former government and attempting to preserve what information from the old world. We have made it to the Capitol of the former United States, secured the Citadel and freed the people from the Enclave. We are the Brotherhood of Steel."

"The imposters mentioned an old foe held up in the Pentagon, I take it that is your Citadel," remarked Niche as he looked around the room, "the Enclave…used us to ensure their survival. We, all ten thousand eight hundred and fifty – six of us, thought we were working for the President… not a clandestine group of special interests; we were fools…damn fools."

"Do not feel too bad, the Enclave are masters of manipulation," Schieber imparted with a frown on his lips, "many thought them the legitimate heirs of the government."

"Niche, we lost our vertibird and would like spend some time here as we have no way to return yet," Bors brushed his hair back and scowled, "we're too far from the Citadel, and I would respectfully like to ask your permission to stay."

"I have plenty of room, but my food isn't much," answered Fred as he got up, "I have my room closed off from the rest…my colleagues are known to wonder in at night from time to time. It would be nice to hear other voices than my own."

Operative Juan Alvarado found himself at a small ranch in the middle of the wasteland. He followed Marshall Lawson's directions and made his way to the Regulator headquarters. Brahmins were braying in the pens as field hands worked on herding and milking. Two regulators sat on the open porch. One had her feet up on the bannister with her hat covering her eyes. The other had neatly parted hair and wide aviator sunglasses. Both of them wore dusters, brown and reddish from the wasteland desert.

"I'm here to see Sonora Cruz," informed Juan to the two, the man just pointed his thumb to the door silently, "uhm…thanks."

"God damnit, frosh," yelled a black Regulator with hair knit into rows as he held two throwing knives, "you shifted my shot when you opened that door!"

"Sorry," said Juan as he closed the door quickly but held it before it slammed shut to close it quietly.

"Don't take the piss out of the Frosh," admonished a woman with platinum blonde hair that was cut around the bottom of her ears, "you just won me a pint, kid."

"Fuck you, Brit," retorted the black Regulator as he tossed a knife across the room close to Juan and hit the target in the center, "you owe me a pitcher, you pond hopping slag!"

"Uhm, were can I find Sonora Cruz," asked Juan to the Regulators playing darts and to those watching.

"Fucking yanks, what was the Frosh," asked the Blonde woman with pale fair skin.

"Sonora Cruz, I have a message from Marshall Lawson and a request to join," replied Alvarado getting pissed at how the others ignored him.

"You'll find her at the top of the stairs and to the left," responded the woman with a strange accent to Alvarado's ear, "you might want to project more, by the way. Sonora has a hard time hearing passive wimps."

Juan narrowed his brown eyes for a second before he turned away and walked up the steps; he knocked on the doorframe of an office with no door, behind a desk sat a young woman with a leather Stetson curved on the sides and a brown duster, "friend, foe, or errand boy," she asked in a flat voice.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," reacted Juan as he shifted and moved his dead arm a little as it was tide to his belt.

"My name isn't ma'am, Madame, or anything of the like," she rejoined looking up from her files, "I'm Sonora Cruz, what do you have for me?"

"I am Juan Alvarado, I bring myself and a letter from Marshall Lawson," said the Hispanic teenager from Rivet City.

"We'll see about that, the letter first please," answered Cruz as she held out her hand, she read quietly, "former Brotherhood of Steel Knight, at least you know how to shoot. Why were you kicked out, Alvarado?"

"I was accused and found quality of a crime in Grayditch; breaking and entry, along with theft," answered the BIOS Operative, "my medical status proved to make me ill-suited for the Brotherhood's use."

"Honesty, I can appreciate it and it is a good thing you didn't try an hide it or make your injury into a pity party," appraised Sonora as she cleaned her yellowing teeth with her tongue, "why do you want to be a Regulator?"

"A person has to do something with their life," he reasoned as he held his dead arm, "it is better to make others live in more tolerable world."

"Respectable answer, but our group isn't all honor based, towns hire us to complete jobs they don't have the ability to do," countered Sonora Cruz as she tapped the files in front of her desk, "end of the day, you collect fingers and you get caps. You don't and you'll starve of find yourself relying on a knife to complete missions, if you get chosen to be a Regulator. We are here to do well, the money is a side benefit, or it should be anyway."

"Understood," replied Juan.

"There are no set ranks or democracy. I am the leader here, I tell you where to go and what to do; and you do it," Sonora Cruz wrote down on a piece of scrape paper, "once you get chosen from being a probie or a frosh you become a Regulator, equal to the rest. You can only become a Regulator on my say so, till then you are a probie or frosh; not all probies and froshies are raised to become Regulators. Most wind up leaving or dying."

"I promise to do neither," Juan tried to joke but Sonora didn't smile.

"Take this to the quartermaster. He'll give you what you need for now. You'll get your duster when you earn it, and not a moment sooner," lectured Cruz, "and never joke about dying to me. I don't like investments that don't pan out. Marshall Lawson has a decent opinion of you. I hope you prove him right."

Operative Lolli Pop squatted in front of the small fire he made. Galvin Cobb, former commander of Talon Company in Takoma Industrial Park, sat down near the fire as he was tied to a mangled road sign still firmly secured to the ground. Pop, the Asian Operative of BIOS originally from Little Lamplight and later Big Town, still wore the Talon armor of a dead Second Scout. The combat armor was still ill fitting, too big for his frame, but it wasn't too off from his size. Pop had his laser rifle, taken from the cold dead hands of a Second Scouts, resting against a rock he sat on, eating some pork 'n' beans from a can heated over the small fire.

"I haven't eaten in a few days," remarked Cobb as he stretched out his legs, "mind sharing that with me?"

Pop looked up from his slightly decent meal, he opened his rucksack and tossed a rancid snack cake that was still in the wrapper, "don't say I'm not a giving person."

Cobb had to squish the food under his foot, drag it to himself and turn it to his hands for him open it and eat, "thanks, I think the fire needs to be built up a little more," Galvin said between bites.

"I'm not a servant," answered Lolli Pop as he put the can down, empty.

"I'd go out and get the material myself, but," Cobb pulled on his restraints and stopped talking.

"Urgh," mumbled Pop as he holstered his semi – automatic pistol and tucked his revolver into the cloth utility belt, "I'll be right back, just stay there…"

The darkness swallowed Operative Pop as he walked the old town streets to scrounge a dumpster for paper and a building for wood. Cobb was still eating the snack cake, slowly savoring even though it was more than two hundred years old, stale, and rotten. His eyes kept on the small fire as time passed and only a glowing haze from the embers could be seen in the immediate area. Galvin and Lolli camped outside of an old town that had been reclaimed by the wasteland, only the skeletal remains of buildings and walls remained. Coconut was a new taste to Galvin Cobb, though the snake cake was a bad representation on how the product tasted regularly. Stars shown through the cloudy night sky, but the only light came from a three foot radius around the burning embers of the fire, cracks and sparks popping then flying in the air. Their orange and red light slowly died and floated in the air, Cobb heard gravel move off to his right side where the main road was located.

"Who is that?" Galvin Cobb turned his head around and looked blindly into the darkness, he asked into the night sky.

"Just your friendly, nightly wanderers," replied a man in a brown duster as he emerged from the darkness with two other Regulators in similar dusters, "but it seems you're in a bit of bind, friend. Who has done this to you?"

"If you cut me free, I'd be very grateful," declared Cobb with a sickening smile, "man named Pop tied me up. Kidnapped from Grayditch and plans to sell me to Evergreen Mills, I gather."

"The Mills is farther southwest from here, you've been traveling the wrong way for that," commented a Regulator as he pointed out their foot prints in the earth, "seems more like you're on your way to Fort Bannister…."

The other Regulator had bent over to undo Cobb's bindings and caught the man's face in the light. Cobb felt himself getting manhandled in a flash, the Regulator grabbed him by the back of his head and jaw, pulling him to the dying fire light. Cobb's eyes rolled and searched the faces of the men in brown coats. Brown dusters billowed in the night wind, the Regulators' faces were like chiseled from stone and Cobb knew they recognized him.

Chambers, his face, he looks like Galvin Cobb," asserted the Regulator closer to the former commander of Talon Company.

"Marshall Lawson reported that Cobb had escaped Grayditch justice," the first Regulator that had been seen by Cobb said, identifying himself as Chambers; "sorry friend, doesn't look to be your lucky night," continued Chambers as he directly talked to Galvin and pointed a beat up ten millimeter pistol to the restrained man's head, "you can run from Takoma, and you can run from Grayditch, but you cannot escape the crimes you've committed."

"Not today," answered Operative Lolli Pop, two handguns held at the ready, the semi – automatic pistol held closer to his face and shoulder as he aimed at two of the Regulators' heads, "I'd appreciate it if you…you moved on."

Chambers gripped his pistol and began to turn with his two companions to face Pop. The Asian Operative fired both his pistol and revolver at the same time, jerking the triggers. The Regulator to the right of Chambers was killed instantly as the bullet passed through his nose and out the back of his head. To the left, the second Regulator wasn't as lucky as the recoil from the pistol put the bullet through the top of his head. He fell back, the top of his skull cap completely blown off and parts of his brain oozing out into the shifting sand. Chambers was equally shocked and scared as he aimed with a trembling hand, but Cobb caught his legs and tripped him. _Better to be alive and with Pop than dead with the Regs_, thought he former Talon Company commander.

The Regulator suffering from Pop's poor shot squirmed and withered on the ground. He was not fully dead, his brain held on and transmitted signals to the body, slowly dying from blood loss. Chambers got back to his feet and turned to point his ten millimeter pistol, but Lolli shot his arm with the revolver. It took the Operative two shots to actually hit his target. Operative Lolli Pop was not the best marksman in the world. Chambers dropped his pistol and tried to run, Pop shot out his leg from under the Regulator.

Immobilized and wounded, Chambers fell to the ground but refused to give up. He tried to escape, crawling away by pulling his body with the one good arm as he bled from two bullet wounds. The bullet that went through his arm completely shattered the bone. The wound to his leg had the bullet slug lodged in his thigh, causing Chambers a throbbing pain. He continued to pull himself away from the fire and the sights of Operative Lolli Pop. Clicking the safeties back on, the Asian Operative replaced his weapons in his holsters.

"Cut of his ear!" Galvin Cobb struggled against his bindings while ordering Lolli Pop.

"What," questioned Pop as he began to check the dead Regulator's pockets.

"Cut. Off. His. Ear." Articulated Cobb as brushed his forehead with his bound hands and wrists, "you want to know what is expected of Talon Company mercenaries, this is one of those criteria. Cut off his ear, before he crawls away; he's a dead man anyway. The wasteland will claim him."

"That's just…horrible! Why would I do that," Lolli felt a pang of guilt as he watched the still wounded Chambers crawling away, _is this why I've really signed up?_

"They take our fingers, we take their ears. If you want them to believe you're truly a Talon Company merc, you will take his ear," reasoned Cobb with a snarl.

Pop watched the wounded Chambers crawl and sighed as he walked behind him, just beyond the light of the fire in darkness of the chill wasteland night, "no please don't," pleaded the Regulator as the Operative pulled out his combat knife, "please, you don't have to…you dunt have…please, donut do it!"

"I'm sorry," whispered Pop, more to himself than to Chambers as he pushed the Regulator's head into the dirt and began to saw the man's ear off from where it attached to his skull.

Chambers screamed into the earth and just as the last bit of cartilage separated from his head the Regulator passed out. The ear flopped around in Lolli's hand making the Operative's stomach churn. He turned from Chambers' unconscious body and puked up all the pork 'n' beans he had just eaten. The chunks splattered on the desert earth and over his boots. He picked up the ear and brushed off the recently eaten and regurgitated food pieces. Pop's stomach was doing summersaults as he walked back into the light of the dying fire to rejoin Galvin Cobb.

"You need to cut off all their ears," said Cobb as he shifted on the ground, "and try not to puke on me, will yeh?"

"How the fuck can you people do this," asked Lolli as he put his knee on the Regulator he had killed instantly and began to remove the ear from the corpse.

"Talon Company gets paid for all Regulator ears turned into one of our contractors," answered Galvin as he watched the Brotherhood of Steel Operative remove a handkerchief from the dead Regulator's coat pocket, "taking an ear to mark a kill, any kill, is part of Talon culture. You're going to have to get used to it, sooner or later."

The Regulator that had his skull cap blown off had finally died, Pop began to cut off that corpses' right ear, "oh fuck," he said as a large portion of brain rolled out from the skull and Lolli wretched all over the body.

"You don't have a strong disposition, do you," commented Cobb with a snicker.

"Fuck you," Lolli scorned as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Don't forget to collect their rifles and ammo, selling them at Fort Bannister will be profitable," advised Galvin as he shifted against his bindings.

"We're going to move camp," Pop nodded as he picked up two the three rifles.

"I think you're forgetting something," noted Cobb with a smile, "a simple 'thank you' will do."

"Thank you for what," queried Lolli Pop as he screwed up his face in confusion.

"I did take down that Reg for you," answered Galvin Cobb with a wide smile, "you might be a lousy shot, but I'll admit you can sure put on one hell of a surprise attack. However, there was one man that could have taken you down. Luckily, I took him down for you."

"You'd have gone with them if they didn't know who you were," asserted Pop, letting Cob know he had overheard the conversation longer then former commander thought.

"It was a good opportunity," countered Galvin Cobb with a shrug.

"Don't think of it again, my organization has deep connections…and my position needs to be secured since the one I had in the Brotherhood was lost," lied the Operative as he took a backpack of a dead Regulator, it was in better shape than the one given to him by Roe.

"I don't even know who you really work for," criticized Cobb as he sized up the Operative, "not Brotherhood, much to cunning for those steel heads. They only know how to stand and shoot. You definitely aren't a Regulator 'cause you shot the dusters too quickly…hard to place you, Mister Pop."

"Best not to place me, former commander Cobb, but to accept the benefits when you receive them," replied Pop as he sought out items from the rucksack and strapped the rifles to it, _it's my job to keep you in place_, he thought.

Operative Daniel Roe sat at a table with Star Paladin Cristano Bael. The ghouls worked around the town house clearing away the debris. The upstairs was cleaned out but there were many holes that needed to be patched. Plastic tarps recovered from garbage and debris were used a temporary coverings as rain would come in at night, and plastic nearly lasted forever. Bael's eyes were on fire. His zeal impressed and intimidated Roe. Dan had read over the plan presented to him that had been drafted by Janice Yearling and Bael. It required a lot from him and his team.

"So, do you think your team can handle this assignment," Bael asked a loaded question, tapping his finger on the file.

Roe took a moment to reflect on his team. Zhao, Bin, and Da'an were Chinese ex – commandos that had infiltrated all the way to the Capitol, they were more than ready and capable. Franklin could handle himself and the team well, he proved to be the perfect second – in – command making it easy to work with the ghouls. The man kept quiet, never revealing too much of his past. The two other members of the Alexandrian mercenary team were Rook and Tamara.

Rook was a surprising individual, originally a popular professional football strongside lineback for the Washington Senators. He held the record for most sacks in one season, twenty – five in fifteen games, before the National Football League was forced to fold in 2067 by the House Un-American Activities Committee because it supported a socialist method of advancement. The ten years before the bombs fell, Rook worked as an enforcer for the Moretti crime family because all NFL players became blacklisted by the HUAC. Then the bombs fell and Rook was exposed to enough radiation to affect his genetic makeup and slowly turned into the presently large, broad chest and shoulder mercenary he was today.

The other ghoul on the black operations team for the Brotherhood of Steel was Tamara. She was a resident of the District of Columbia's metro area her whole life, a former single mom and, at one point, a gang member. Like Rook, Franklin, Zhao, Bin and Da'an, Tamara's life changed on October 23, 2077. Survival was the goal, first for her child but small bodies could only take so much radiation. Then Tamara fought and survived her herself, she had grown up in the school of hard knocks and that helped her face post – apocalyptic life. Still, the loss of her child and the horrors she saw had jaded Tamara. Wounded people were better served with a bullet in the brain than a treatment from a stimpak, she reasoned as the prolonged pain and suffering of her daughter stayed with her.

"Where do we get the boats," asked Roe, certain of his team though uncertain of water travel.

Star Paladin Bael passed him a pouch of caps, "negotiate with a captain in the southern marina."

"You know the people of Grayditch are mighty pissed that Wilhelm's Warf is not getting any shipping traffic," replied Roe as he pulled on his ear lobe, "also there have been some rumors of a group called the Immortals."

"Black Operations are meant to be covert…good job with the skirmish at Crossroads," complimented Bael off handedly, his thoughts to nothing on the commerce of Grayditch or the rumors of locals.

"Your will be done, Steel Heart," said Roe in a flat tone that meant to be sarcastic.

"The Elders have yet to sign off on this plan, but approval will come soon. Yearling and I have it in mind to put this in motion sooner rather than waiting for approval," Bael held as he stood up and adjusted his hat, which matched his dapper suit.

"Understood, so it's a go either way," confirmed Roe as he counted out the caps, "we will scout the area of Norfolk for any and all Enclave presence."

On the other side of Graydtich, a secret meeting of five town Representatives continued. Henry Fleet, of the host town, sat at the head of the table. He was accompanied by Seagrave Holmes of Rivet City, Billy Creel of Megaton, Vala of Friendship Heights, and Mister Burke of Tenpenny Tower. The talks had progressed slowly. The rights of trade and taxation of traders outside of the five town agreement took a long time. Now the biggest issue that would be the bulwark of their agreement was under review. The idea of basing their currency on a common and stable backing was to be discussed so as to foster a set rate for the cap between the five towns and all vendors based in them. As it were, merchants and vendors fluctuated between from nearly fifty to hundred times the price of similar goods. Purified water would sell between six and twelve caps on the open market with no reason for pricing within the five town area as they received regular shipments from the Brotherhood of Steel.

Seagrave Holmes was the first to relate the issue to pure, radiation free, water and even promoted the idea of basing the economy off of a water backed cap, "aqua pura is one of the most constant items of trade in the area."

"When the shipments arrive," retorted Vala with a scowl, the shipments to Friendship Heights were still new and caravaneers found reason to delay and build up a need to trade in secondary goods.

"The shipments are secured by Rivet City Security. Good men and women who risk their lives to keep the area hydrated," rejoined Holmes with pride in his city.

"We're dodging the major issue with a water backed cap," Billy Creel wiped his brow and fidgeted a little, "aqua pura is controlled by … by the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Control over the backing of a monetary unit should be in the hands of those willing to place it at that limitation," Burke injected cryptically.

"And how do you suggest backing a cap with water when fresh water is in the hands of the Brotherhood," inquired Fleet with an incredulous tone, "I dear say we violence would not be the appropriate answer."

"Considering your 'special relationship' with the Brotherhood of Steel, attacking them would be out of the question. But to include them in these talks would not be desirable, either," analyzed Mister Burke as he held his hands on his knees and leaned forward to the table, "steel heads control the largest supply of fresh and drinkable water and you _geniuses _want to back the cap with water. The Brotherhood of Steel would be made the richest organization in the known world over night. To counter balance this, the weight of water and cap wealth need to be incredibly inverse."

"I'm not looking to give the Brotherhood of Steel any more power than it already has," corrected Fleet flatly, "I do not look to progress their goals, this for our towns and cities, Mister Burke. If we set the rate between water and caps at a wide gap, then we're dooming those with few caps to have even less wealth."

"I think…I…we're…Megaton, in light of this conversation, need to address it to our home," stammered Billy Creel as he saw the weight of both arguments from Burke and Fleet.

Henry Fleet sighed, "please, we do not need to disband these talks just yet. There is no Brotherhood of Steel influence here. Let us, the true inhabitants of the Capital Wasteland, determine the future of our affairs. We can adjourn until the morning, but we need to set a path for the future. Just take the night, grab a drink, catch a show, and we'll all return to the table in the morning."

"Sounds like a fair idea," responded Vala, not too happy with the choice of Mister Burke as her settlement came from the lower end spectrum of cap wealth.

"I'll be in my quarters," said Seagrave Holmes as he packed up for the day and left.

"I hope this town has a decent bar," complained Mister Burke, "preferably one were they don't water down the drinks and serve them in clean glasses."

"Try Benjamin's Respite, it would do to fit your…standards," Fleet quipped as he walked out of the conference room and into his apartment office.

"I can barely stand the smell of this place, let alone the taste," grumbled Burke to himself as he sneered at Vala knowing she heard him.

"You do not wish to be here," she commented flatly to point out the fact.

"My dear, I go where it is asked of me," replied Burke with a false smile as if he was speaking to a stupid child.

"You have choice. Yet you do things against your will and complain more than I have ever seen a person do," observed Vala with a frown.

"I thought your people killed before they even heard others utter a word? Yet you seem to put on the guise of a wise woman," Burk tipped his hat as he packed up his items and left, "I suppose you had to entertain yourself while on your back so often. I am off to get a drink. I won't lie, It was not pleasant meeting you and I look forward to never seeing you again."

Vala waited till Burke left before she walked into Henry Fleet's office, he looked at her and frowned, "I think there is a problem with Mister Burke," she said as a matter of fact.

"I have a problem with Mister Burke," rejoined Fleet with a sour look.

"He is purposely subverting these talks," continued Vala, nonplussed by Fleet's comments or inflated self – image, _he was a politician after all_, she thought.

"These are harsh words, what proof do you have," requested the Mayor of Grayditch as he undid the top button to his shirt.

"He just told me he did not expect to see me or this group for a while, if ever again," supplied Vala.

"Tenpenny plans to remove himself from this conference," Fleet held his hand to his chin and tapped his lone index finger against his lower jaw, "shit…We can't risk that…why is Friendship Heights acting as a true friend in these talks? The City of Gryaditch is much obliged to you, but we have seldom worked together."

"Boadicea has expressed a keen interest in the way this city runs," supplied the reformed raider, "such as your sewage and septic systems."

Henry Fleet raised an eyebrow, "and what do I receive?"

"Other than our support in the talks," Vala smiled as she held a hand to her hip, "we can provide salvaged goods like wood, stone, metal, and piping. So what say you, Mayor Fleet?"

Fleet laughed as he leaned back against his chair, "was not what I asked. I asked what was in this for _me_, not the City of Grayditch," in the back of his mind, Henry had one room for free thought, _if Tenpenny pulls out of the talks, who else would have the large amount of caps to replace him?_

**A/N: **Thank you all for following this series, Vol. 4 is beginning and I've already worked several plot lines that will be running together. I know releasing this chapter a day after the DLC: Honest Hearts release will not give me too many readers. But for those of you that took time off from playing to read and those that have just read, please review. Your ideas and comments really influence me, how I write, and where I can go with this series.

Please Read & Review!

Random facts:

Floating Gate Metal – Oxide- Semiconductor Field – Effect Transistor is the scientific term form for static state drives, also known as flash drives.

The Washington Senators were an NFL, and later an Independent, team that were in existence from 1921 to 1941.

House Un- American Activities Committee existed from 1938 to 1975 was first organized to investigate the influence of Nazi and 'Certain Other' Propaganda activities, which would later become Communists. The HUAC carried out a brief investigation in the internment of Japanese Americans in WWII. To be brought up for hearing by the HUAC, even if found innocent of any wrong doing, would lead to a blacklisting due to the public nature of the hearing; it was renamed in 1969 to be House Committee on Internal Security before being disbanded in 1975 and absorbed into the Department of Justice. For the purpose of the Fallout Universe, the HUAC was never disbanded.


	2. Hero of Talon

I do not own Fallout in any way, shape, or form; nor am I deriving profit from this work of fiction.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 2.) Hero of Talon

The Elders, Sentinels, and Proctors were sitting in a meeting called to order in the A – Ring of the Citadel. Head Paladin William Bruce was present. He had been wheeled in by Head Scribe Elizabeth Jameson having been in his quarters to share notes. Star Paladin Cristano Bael and Scribe Janice Yearling were the last to arrive the meeting, the walk over from the Alexandria having taken them the extra time. The plan written by Yearling was being read by everyone, the information and details were laid out in packets. Several other plans had been submitted that ranged from forcibly taking over the _BCSS Law & Order_ to vertibird fly overs of the Chesapeake Bay. The BIOS plan for a covert team to collect information on the ground in the region where Norfolk, Virginia once existed by way of the Chesapeake struck a middle ground. This team needed to have the semblance of being unaffiliated with the Brotherhood of Steel and, through recent circumstances, BIOS had such a team.

"Star Paladin Bael, how soon can you enact yours and Scribe Yearling's plan," asked Elder Lyons, it was clear that he favored the intelligence officers' recommendation.

"Our black operations team will be leaving shortly," replied Cristano Bael knowing full well he had already given Daniel Roe the green light to act on the reconnaissance mission.

Elder Lyons nodded, not at all happy that Bael was acting independently but not surprised either, and turned to Scribe Bowditch, "where are you planning to start emplacing the outpost defenses?"

"I have made arrangements to make Point Lookout the first stop for increasing the defense structures as it is the southernmost outpost and is relatively exposed to the Chesapeake Bay," supplied Bowditch as he wiped his mouth, deciding not to continue speaking all his thoughts he nodded that he was done.

"A vertibird will be arranged to take you and whatever supplies you need to Point Lookout," agreed Lyons with a respectful nod, "there is a third part to this plan that is also worth investing some discussion."

"The point that Elder Lyons arises too is that any good preparation for war requires a facet of diplomacy," Elder Reginald Rothchild imparted his wisdom on the collective leadership of the Brotherhood of Steel, "with information from Yearling's defector we plan to open talks with the Enclave through the Commonwealth."

"This is outrageous," exclaimed Sentinel Julian Tristan as he slammed his fist down hard on the table.

"We know this is an idea that invokes a high level emotion considering all of us that have fought, and those that have died fighting them in the past," Rothchild commented as most members of the east coast Brotherhood murmured amongst themselves, "but there is no need to enter a conflict if we can negotiate a peace before more life is lost."

"We cannot trust the Enclave," held Sentinel Sarah Lyons and her father made a slight motion to show his agreement but that she should say less, Scribe Yearling caught these quick body motions.

"How are we to accept the Commonwealth in good faith as mediator," asked Proctor Peabody from the Order of the Sword, "did they not withhold information from us previously?"

"Yes, information vital to our defense," added Sentinel Tristan, his blood still boiling at the thought of opening talks with the Enclave.

"Their Ambassador has assured me that there is no love between them and the Enclave. Similarly to us, they fought a war with them that ended two years ago though they have yet to link their war with ours or the death of President Henry Eden to their victory," educated Rothchild, whose friendship with George Schultz had chilled since the news of the Enclave, "the Commonwealth negotiated a peace and created open diplomatic relations with the Enclave."

"I don't trust any person, organization, or government that's on talking terms with those totalitarian bastards," Tristan's voice was full of disdain as his grimace made his bald head wrinkle.

"I believe this to be the best course of action as we make plans to defend ourselves," injected Lyons, showing his support of the unfavorable diplomatic option, "faith is a hard quality to have in one's enemies, let alone one's self."

"We need to move and attack them at what they call a home," Sentinel Tristan took the view of a warmonger, "raze the place to the ground as we did to the Pitt."

"Keep in mind that we know nothing of this place," reminded Head Paladin Bruce to the Sentinel.

"Or the fact their families could be there," Head Scribe Jameson furthered, a reminder that the Enclave for better or worse were still human.

"They never once gave a thought to our families," warned Tristan as he stared down the Head Scribe, "last time I remember, their plan was to wipe us from the landscape in a mass genocide."

"Richardson and Eden are dead," retorted Jameson as a statement of fact, "let us see how their new leadership thinks and acts."

"We have not heard from the Enclave in over two years, much can change in two years," Janice Yearling stated, not looking to agree with either Tristan or Jameson, soldiers and researchers were poor diplomats.

Operative Daniel Roe walked amongst the merchants with Rook and Tamara. Franklin was with the Chinese ghouls still fixing up the headquarters, trying to cover holes on the second floor and make a proper roof. The merchants were selling all kinds of items, punga fruit from Point Lookout; produce from Drayden, and spices from the Eastern Shore, along with textiles and leather. The largest supplier of goods in the region was the merchant fleet owned by Joost Van Dyke. Mariners of small schooners from many different backgrounds all with one goal in mind, making caps, were found with the merchants they supplied.

Van Dyke's mariners were men of no nation and claimed no background. The simple farmers of Drayden reported many times to the Brotherhood of Steel that Van Dyke's employed sailors would raid coastal family compounds and any short travel vessels they used. These sailors, often referred to as Vandykers in fear and anger, had made Point Lookout their port of call because of its position between the Potomac and Eastern Shore. It was not uncommon to hear of the triangle trade between slaves bought from the Eastern Shore and traded for goods out of Drayden; and said goods winding up in Grayditch, Rivet City, or Evergreen Mills to help line the cap pouches of the Vandykers.

Joost Van Dyke had moved the official headquarters of his mariner collective to Grayditch in the last six months for one reason alone, the city was growing. Point Lookout still remained the port of call for the Vandykers, their old headquarters nothing more than a local guild hall. The new council was passing regulations left and right, but Fleet welcomed Van Dyke with open arms. The pirate king having been elected a judge essentially made him and his business practices legitimate if it were ever to be tested legally. However, there were plenty of individual mariners that hailed from ports in Drayden, the Eastern Shore, and Point Lookout. The most famous independent boat on the Chesapeake was the Duchess Gambit, but it did not lead to a covert mission that Roe was tasked with securing. A small schooner was needed, something fast and preferably used wind power to move in the water without detection from advanced radar.

Roe was having issues as most captains didn't want to take on a seven person mercenary team with gear, "I will pay you a hundred caps a head," pleaded the Operative to an independent mariner from the Eastern Shore.

"La, you pay sab'a hundred caps and gain 'ashra thousand when you kill my crew and me," said the man with olive skin as he drew his rag tunic closer to his body and whispered something to his first mate in a harsh language, "la, kawed, go away."

"I'll raise it to two hundred caps a head," haggled Roe as Rook looked over the bustling market place, "and we'll lock our primary weapons with your arms and stores."

"La," answered the captain as the first mate showed a spear and gun he held under a shawl.

"I think we should try another boat," whispered Tamara in her harsh ghoul growl from under the black face mask as she looked to the Eastern Shore captain and said, "goon kai, musselman."

The captain yelled at her and Roe as they walked away, apparently he knew Mandarin along with his own native tongue. Roe kept walking with Tamara by his side. Rook kept watch on their back and the crowd swirling around them. Rook and Tamara wore their face masks, Roe had his curled down around his nose and just under his ears. His hair was longer since when he first signed up with the Brotherhood of Steel and hung around his ears with a part in the middle. His hair was still dark brown, just like like his eyes. His gray armor stood out in harsh contrast to the black combat armor of his ghouls. They passed by stall after stall, each merchant and captain refusing their request. Finding a ship to transport them would be more difficult than originally conceived.

Tamara walked up to a stall that held knick knacks from the pre-war period. She grabbed a teddy bear and stroked the side of its face as her gloved hand wiped over the sewn in button eyes. A merchant, a wizened Asian man that was hunched over was yelling at her to buy or get out. Roe tossed a few caps on the table to purchase the toy. He thought that the teddy bear must have reminded Tamara of her long dead daughter. The old merchant claimed it wasn't enough for the toy.

"If you continue to scare the customers I'll have to take my wares somewhere else, Chairman Cheng," a man sitting in a corner said as he leaned out of the shadows, wearing a felt coat and knit cap with holes, "and since I'm that last sea dog supplying your commie loving ass, you better take what I say to heart."

The man was old, a little past fifty or possibly a young sixty, his skin harden by the sun and sea water; he noticed Dan trying to read him, "look at a man too long and he can get the wrong impression, sonny."

"What exactly is a sea dog," asked Dan curiously.

"Sonny, a sea dog is a man who was born to a whore, raised on the water and nursed with blood, sweat and tears," answered the man as he continued to sit, "a dying breed, we be, now that any man making two logs float calls himself a Captain."

"Smells like a lot of bullshit to me, coach," said Rook as he made his way closer to Roe.

"Didn't know ghouls could smell," quipped the old sea dog as he nodded to the broad shouldered Rook, "I mean smell for themselves, considering I can smell rotting hide from over here."

"Rook, hold the line," ordered Roe as he held the former linebacker back, "look mister, I don't rise to insults. However, I don't care for people to disrespect my team."

"A merc with common sense, haven't seen that in a long time…haven't seen many merc ghouls too often, come to think of it," rambled the old sea dog.

"I only care to get my mission complete and paid, if you have a boat there is profit in it for you," Dan laid out his need bluntly.

"Scuttlebutt's a group of ruffians been asking to charter a boat," the sea dog stood up revealing for the first time one of his legs was a wooden peg, "and may haps ol' Greene has a boat, and may haps he don't."

"If ol' Greene did have a boat, preferably a fast one that can take on seven head, we'd be willing to pay a hundred caps a head," offered Roe as he jingled his cap pouch.

"Last this ol' sea dog hears was that you were offering two hundred caps a head for passage," Greene leant heavily on his peg leg, the leather straps well-worn to his skin, "but I suppose I could cut a deal at hundred and fifty caps a head as long as you and your ghouls don't mind some chores and labor."

"Don't you need a destination as well," Roe looked to Captain Greene, and the man shook his head.

"I dun heard where you're lookin' to go, think it's a damn fool's errand. But men do funny things for caps," Greene smiled, his teeth almost rotted away.

"And you don't think we'll try to take over boat," Dan wanted confirmation he wasn't going to put himself or his team into a massacre.

"Sonny, a day of rigging and cleaning on a ship will prevent any untoward thoughts and actions like that," Greene's eyes squinted as he stepped into the light and held out a gnarled beefy hand, "do we have ourselves a deal, or what?"

Operative Juan Alvarado was a probationary Regulator. Getting into the group was easy, getting the duster that marked you as an accepted member was difficult. This forced most probationary members into contracts for unknown periods of time, which was at the discretion of the grandmaster, Sonora Cruz. Some probies or froshies as they were known to made Regulators could wait anywhere from a year to a decade before being made a Regulator. Most probies and froshies were given the honor posthumously.

Alvarado was still wearing his gray combat armor. He kept his arm braced to his belt with a jacket over his shoulders. His working arm was through the sleeve. Cruz warned him that he might not get chosen by Regulators to go out on missions at first because of his injury. The other probationary members served as the essential support staff for the made Regulators.

Juan found himself in a room of the ranch, leather boots were turned upside down on a wood pole. He shined the old brahmin leather with a rag in good hand. There were three other provisional Regulators working in the room with him. The eldest, a man nearing his early forties, was cobbling together shoes while two others, a boy and a girl with a familial resemblance, mended the brown leather dusters. The cobbler turned to Juan and smiled through a bushy beard and lanky hair.

"Not as glorious as it seems in the stories, huh kid," he jested while pulling a sole off a boot with a small hammer; his clothes were that of a field hand, no real armor was actually on his person.

"How long have you been a probationary Regulator," Juan asked, curious because of the man's attitude and apparent age.

"Five years this January," answered the cobbler, as he held four small square nails on his loose lips, "think they like the work I do on their boots."

"Five years is a long time," said Juan after he let out a soft whistle, he tried his best not to sound condescending but it was inflected on his voice because he grew up in Rivet City, "what made you stick with it?"

"Not much else was ahead of me, it's good for a man to have some kind of purpose," the cobbler shrugged nonplussed, "I'll get raised up, some day."

Two Regulators walked in to the room, the platinum blonde and the black one with corn rows that Juan had interrupted the other day while they threw knives, "froshie, Cruz says you have some experience with super mutants," questioned the woman.

"I do," answered Alvarado modestly as the blonde was looking him up and down as if to appraise him, he also felt the eyes of the cobbler and the brother and sister mending the leather dusters on him.

"Can you use any other weapon other than that peashooter," asked the black Regulator with corn rows.

"I imagine I can use a ten millimeter sub machine gun, or as sawed off shotgun with a double trigger," thought aloud the Hispanic Operative originally from Rive City.

The blonde Regulator tossed him a sub machine gun in poor condition that even had a raider's gang emblem etched into it along with the former owner's name, "take it till you can find or buy better weapon."

"Does this mean I'm assisting on a mission," inquired Alvarado, the blonde simply nodded, "where are we going?"

"Going to need a change of clothes," teased the black Regulator as he and the blonde began to walk out of the room, "well, hurry up, we have a long trek up to Dickerson."

Operative Anna LaCroix walked with Knight Captain Galeas and Scribe Actaeon in the middle of Jury Street Metro. The Operative wore grey combat armor while Galeas took to wearing recon armor, as she was more comfortable within that dark green under armor to her missing power armor. Actaeon donned his gray combat armor and his maroon chaperon once again, his Scribe robe hung limply from a hook in his Alexandria apartment. LaCroix had a very alert sense as she casually took in her surroundings. Galeas seemed more alert and attentive as ever, taking in Jury Street Metro's ruins through the sights of her laser rifle.

Actaeon strolled in the middle of Jury Street Metro and checked the roof tops, "expecting a surprise," asked Galeas as LaCroix slipped away and out of sight in the ruins and rubble.

"Warrick is a sniper, he used the rooftops last time I met him," answered the Scribe as he knelt down to watch the several shadows play on the street.

"He seemed to be helpful in capturing…acquiring Harkness," Galeas had read the report, though noted that some parts had been cut or redacted.

"If it wasn't for the others, there would be three less Outcasts in the wasteland," Actaeon stared into the Knight Captain's eyes, acknowledging that he and Warrick would have killed former members of the Brotherhood of Steel, "they cornered themselves in the end, Roe's team. Sought of how he operates, letting people run until they corner themselves, had a bounty caught in the diner over there for a week before he claimed it. The bounty decided to eat a bullet instead of risk being captured alive or torn to shreds with a point three – zero – eight caliber from a sniper rifle."

There was a brief exchange of gun fire that occurred in the ruins of Jury Street Metro. Knight Captain Galeas swiveled around and pushed Actaeon back to a destroyed car for cover. They both knelt down and switched to all points that could have gun fire erupting. A raider with a frag grenade in hand ran from behind a building, his body tilting to the side as he rounded the corner and ran to the car. Through the partial mattress armor over his chest three steaming holes opened to gore and he tumbled to the ground. A live grenade rolled from his hand and Galeas covered Actaeon form the oncoming shrapnel explosion.

LaCroix made it out in time from behind another building with a second raider in a choke hold. She saw the live grenade and tossed her raider captive on top of it. The raider's body cavity absorbed the concussive and shrapnel blast. LaCroix moved with ease as she shot two men on the roof of a building that had hid by lying down on their stomachs. Those two raiders fell around her as she turned to look at Galeas still covering Actaeon.

"Ambush," she replied while reloading her pistol and smiled as she picked out a raider that was cowering behind some debris wearing doctor's clothes, "you seem to be the smart one of the bunch."

"Knives would have made it a lot quieter," rebuked Galeas as she stood up and moved to the raider and her Operative, "why attack us, raider?"

"Since you killed my crew, guess I'm not much of a leader anymore," replied the dirty raider with a bandana holding back his matted hair as he adjusted his cracked glasses, "name's Ryan Briggs, guess you wouldn't be one to shake hands…or make amends."

The raider Ryan Briggs was answered with a sub – machine gun, shotgun, and laser rifle pointed at his face as he lowered his raised hand, "we haven't come here to make pleasantries, much less get shot up by raiders. Now why did you attack us, raider," asked Galeas from behind her laser rifle.

"To defend ourselves, the local gun never came back from his last mission. Thought he bit the big one, we'd have stated to divide up his stuff but the place is booby trapped and we lost two people there already," Briggs explained as he squinted through his cracked lenses.

"Warrick isn't here," asked Actaeon with a scowl.

"Nah," answered Briggs, "haven't seen him since he left with you."

"We need to check over at Evergreen Mills," said the Scribe as he shouldered his shotgun and began to walk south west to the Mills.

"What should we do about Mister Briggs," asked LaCroix as she packed up her sub – machine gun and pistol.

"You could just… um, let me go," said Ryan Briggs as he returned holding his hands high in the air.

"Slim chance, raider," Galeas motioned him with her gun, "but strip down, I don't like getting shot in the back."

"Okay, okay, just don't shoot me," Briggs pleaded as he removed his clothes, first his shirt and his boots.

"Even the underwear," commanded Galeas as Briggs sighed and nodded.

Standing in front of the two Brotherhood of Steel members naked, Briggs held his genitals in his cupped hands, "is this how you want me?"

"Close your eyes and count to a hundred," answered the Knight Captain as she took the clothing and began to walk with the group to Evergreen Mills, she stuffed his clothes into a waste basket at the end of the street.

Operative Lolli Pop kept walking Galvin Cobb in front of him, one of his handguns pointed to the man's back even though his hands were bound. Cobb's feet were bleeding, Pop's were not much better, as they both had made a hard walk to Fort Bannister. The water tower, the tallest structure at Bannister, was visible to both men. With each step the old and hollowed ruins from the nuclear war became more visible, along with the fortifications made by Talon Company. Fort Bannister was the main, and only, headquarters of Talon Company.

Pop did not know, but he would soon find out, that Bannister was comprised of an underground instillation that survived the initial salvo of October 23, 2077. The lookout posts and sandbags seemed to give an impression of a small encampment. Bunkers, barracks, and armories lay under the ground in protection, hiding the true size of the mercenary group. Galvin held his head down as they approached the guarded chain link gate. Three men of Talon Company came out of their sandbag walled post to question this returned mercenary.

"Second Scouts," asked a man that looked too old to be wearing the markings of a new member to the company, "rank?"

"Yes, corporal," lied Pop as he pushed Cobb forward, "tell Jabsco I'm here."

One of the more veteran mercenaries eyed him cautiously before speaking, "we heard word of the Battle at the Crossroads. Sounded like a very bloody scrap," his combat armor had three stripes on the shoulder pads, Talon Company hadn't thrown away everything from their pre – war army origins, though the ranks were abstract.

"It was very bloody indeed," confirmed Pop.

"You're back at Talon HQ, Corporal," rebuked the veteran as his began to bark out orders, "and on Talon ground you will address Commander Jabsco as Commander, is that clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir," answered Pop as he put himself at attention more, but his body was so tired that he swayed.

"Don't you sir me, puss bucket, I work for a living," rejoined the Talon sergeant, "who was Second Scouts squad leader," the merc was clearly suspicious of Lolli.

Pop now knew he had broken protocol a few times, "I…uh," he stammered.

"Will you to stop courting and fuck already," growled out Cobb as he gave a terse laugh and looked into the sergeant's eyes, "get me to Jabsco now, this meeting has taken seven years too long already."

"Shut your yap, prisoner," demanded the young private among the three mercenaries.

Cobb smiled evilly before he kicked the young private in the knee to topple him. His movement was too fast that Pop didn't have time to pull on the rope. Galvin Cobb held the private's neck between his legs and twisted. The Talon Company's private died as his neck gave an audible pop. Operative Pop pulled Cobb back to him and put his arms over the prisoner's shoulders to aim his handguns at the sergeant and old private. He made sure to make his movements look like he was protecting himself and ready to kill Cobb. The sergeant raised his Chinese Assault rifle to Cobb and Pop.

"Who wants to be the one to tell Jabsco that they killed me," Galvin had a smarmy look on his face that the Operative couldn't see, Pop cocked the hammer back on his revolver and continued to aim.

"I think it would be best to go send someone to get Commander Jabsco," reasoned Pop as he protected himself while using Cobb as a human shield.

"Go get the Commander," ordered the Sergeant.

The other private ran through the circled tent encampment to get to a tent well off from the camp, "might want to rest your iron," suggested the Sergeant as he knew it would take a while for Jabsco to come out of the bunker, though he kept his weapon aimed at the chest of Galvin Cobb.

"I will, when you do," rejoined Pop, bracing himself against Cobb tightly.

Talon Company soldiers for hire that were in the encampment came to the aid of their sergeant as the older private ran through the old military tents erected in a circle. The odd standoff between Pop and the Talon mercs lasted forty – five minutes. The Brotherhood of Steel's Operative began to grow tired as his arms ached from holding his guns and Cobb to him. Commander Jabsco strode in long paces through the encampment as several more men joined him from the underground bunker. Metal reinforced combat armor and a special helmet differentiating him from all others in Talon Company. Pop could not tell if the man was naturally tall or had lifts in his boots, but he stood a head above all others.

"Lower your weapons," ordered the Commander as he grabbed the muzzle of sergeant's gun and threw it down to the ground, "lower your weapon, Sergeant Gaines."

"Yes, Commander Jabsco, sir," replied the Sergeant as he kept his Chinese Assault rifle aimed to the earth.

The stone cold expression of ruthlessness that was on Jabsco's face fluttered into a smile as he saw Cobb and Pop, "you have completed your mission, Corporal, beyond all odds;" Jabsco held out his hand to take the reins that bound Galvin Cobb, "the leash to this animal if you will, Corporal."

Operative Pop hesitated for a second before he handed over the reins, "Galvin Cobb, former Commander of Talon Company in Takoma, as requested Commander Jabsco."

The overall commander of Talon Company frowned a little but accepted the captive none the less; he turned to the men and women of Talon Company, "it is a time for celebration! Drink and feast is needed. Open the stills for all enlisted men and officers! To the success of the Second Scouts! To the success of the Corporal! To the success of Talon Company!"

"Hurray! Hizzah! Yeah," yelled out the Talon mercs as they raised their guns and fists into the air, several firing off shots in celebration.

Pop moved in closer to Jabsco, "sir, could I have a moment to speak with you?"

"Corporal, we can speak later,you have done me a great service," Jabsco lead the captive Cobb with him, "go drink, eat, and fuck, Corporal. It's an ordered!"

It was at that moment that mercenaries unknown to Lolli Pop patted him on the back and pulled him to the bunker. He had one last look as Galvin Cobb and Commander Jabsco walked in a different direction as the celebration began. Underground, the bunker hosted the living quarters and cafeteria of Talon Company. Stills of hard alcohol served drinks, casks of beer were cracked open and foods were cooked that filled the bellies of all the men and women. They lavished titles like 'Champion', 'Hero', and 'Defender'. _If only they knew the truth_, thought Lolli Pop as a certain Sergeant kept a keen eye on him and refused all frothy drinks offered to him.

Fredrick Niche had been a proud American. He was a descendent from German immigrants that settled in western Pennsylvania nearly four hundred years ago and practiced the fundamental principles of hard work, honesty, and integrity. As an academic, he exceled at mathematics and logic; assisting a professor in creating a program to recognize choice words in Mandarin when placed in certain order. That professor introduced him to the National Security Agency, one of the most secretive departments in the United States' federal government. His Friends, family, and life revolved around his work for the NSA. That life culminated on October 23, in the year of our Lord, 2077 as nuclear fire engulfed the world.

For forty – eight hours, Niche worked tooth and nail alongside other cryptologists, technicians and code breakers to determine where all missiles were destined to strike and ensure the continuity of government. The Vice President was the first to be lost, as he was visiting home in Oregon. Plans to move the President up north to the recently annexed Canada were scrapped after intelligence came from special agents of the CIA – information Niche now knew to be falsified for the direct purpose of advancing the Enclave. A strategic defense initiative that would explode all incoming missiles saved Niche and the NSA from being made into a large crater. Particles of the fissile material settled on the building and surrounding area, the air filters for the underground complex drawing in that radioactive material. Their mission, to ensure the survival of the United States of America, had failed.

Two soldiers from the Brotherhood of Steel, so – called Knights in T45d Power Armor, were all the proof he needed of this failure. Anarchy, chaos, and a usurping secret organization laid claim to the remnants of a once great country. _Why did I survive to see this_, thought the ghoulified American cryptologist for the NSA, _all those that have died, been lost, or…trapped in their own irradiated bodies for years, decades, centuries…Why?_ He moved to the main communication room that had hundreds of terminals setup and a large multiscreen monitor on the far wall. The map showed all of North America, practically controlled by the United States' of America in her sphere of influence. Most of the continent was black, save for a few lights spread out in separate locations.

Each light marked an agent, source, or system that gave periodic updated data to the NSA. Niche had monitored these lights for over two hundred years. Marking down those that went out, and the very few that went back online. The most recent light on the map to turn off was located at Point Lookout because an old agent had failed to load any new information to the network. With shock and astonishment, Fredrick Niche saw a new light on the map. A naval recording system had been engaged and the ship was logging its' movement in the Chesapeake Bay.


	3. Sea Dogs and Eagles

I do not own Fallout, the universe of Fallout, nor is profit being derived from the production of this work of fanfiction.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 3.) Sea Dogs and Eagles

Operative Lolli Pop sat upright on an ancient army cot with his legs folded under him in the barracks of the Talon Company underground bunker. In front of him, laid out in meticulous order, were the internal components of his handguns along with some oil and a dirty rag. The area where he had slept and now sat maintaining his guns was reserved for the Second Scouts. The eleven other cots remained empty and unused, a reminder of those Talon mercenaries that wouldn't be returning. Lolli Pop appeared to be the only representation left of the Second Scouts and the other mercenaries readily accepted him as such. The Second Scouts was a sub group of Talon Company, of which there were many, but because of Pop's actions this squad had become famous amongst the Talon mercs.

Talon Company mercenaries had few things to live and fulfill contracts for other than caps. When a contract became too difficult to complete they would run away or die, what Pop had done was to survive and complete his mission against all odds. Gossip quickly passed through the camp that he had killed three Regulators while bringing back Galvin Cobb. He was treated as a hero for Talon Company, most of who were still walking off their hangovers or working through them by other means. Squad separation in the barracks were only done through groupings of cots, there were no walls or partitions. Focusing on cleaning his weapons proved to be difficult as several cots down two mercenaries were fucking and grunting out loud.

Pop was not used to this type of life. Little Lamplight had prepared him for little of the wasteland other than the cool, dark and dank abode he once called home. His family had been wasteland wanderers that knew they could never provide for a child with their nomadic lifestyle. Little Lamplight was the safest haven for children in all of the Capital Wasteland, children being left at the entrance of the cave gate. Now, since the Brotherhood of Steel disbanded the settlement to take over the remains of Vault 87, children of the Capital Wasteland were being left in the care of the Citadel and some of the local towns and settlement. A major influx of children was occurring at Rivet City and Friendship Heights. Populations of settlements increased from the old fashion way as well.

Older kids in Little Lamplight taught the younger ones where the pieces went where, that was their extent of sex education. Big Town, the prophesized paradise for the sixteen year old residents of Little Lamplight, didn't have overt displays of sex, chem use or theft. The main reason was due to the constant attacks from slavers and super mutants; everything that was done was done in private or not at all. One would always know who was 'together' as was customary in small communities, but it was seldom displayed in public more than a kiss or a hug.

The Brotherhood of Steel had sticker regulations against public displays of intimacy or unsavory behavior. A couple of Knights or Scribes would sneak away to release some tension, but virtue and honor were always upheld. No one talked about who they were courting, or how far they had been together, yet one would always find out when one had crossed a line. Talon Company, on the other hand, allowed anything and everything to occur in their barracks.

Placing several parts together for his semi – automatic pistols, the Brotherhood of Steel Operative noticed the one Talon that didn't seem too quick to accept him sit on the cot across from him, "I don't swing your way, Sarge," informed Lolli, not even looking up from his guns.

"You think you're some big hero, don't you," Sergeant Gaines said as he eyed the Operative up and down.

"If you have something to say, than say it," Lolli said as he finished putting his semi – automatic pistol together and clicked in their magazines.

"You don't smell right, Corporal," remarked the Sergeant as he spit on the floor.

"I've used my monthly ration to shower up this morning," rejoined Pop as he nodded to the water pitcher and basin on the counter next to his cot, "perhaps it is yourself that you smell, Sarge?"

"Shut your lying mouth, Corporal," snarled Gaines.

Another Talon mercenary approached the pair, it was the Lieutenant that was Jabsco's personal assistant and said without hesitation, "Commander Jabsco wishes you to attend him in the laboratory, Corporal."

"This isn't over between you and I," warned Gaines as Pop got up to leave, his guns in working and maintained order, with the Lieutenant, "I'll be watching you, Corporal."

Pop shrugged off the comment and walked with the Lieutenant, "what does Commander Jabsco wish to talk with me about," asked the Brotherhood of Steel Operative, the ranks in Talon Company were abstract meaning, but the higher ranks meant those mercenaries had more claim to caps brought in on contracts.

"I couldn't tell you," said the Lieutenant as they walked into the laboratory in the underground bunker.

There was a horrible disfigured man tied to a chair. His body had many scars over inflated muscles and outlined metal plates under his skin. Even on his brow a metal plate protected the ridges of his ocular sockets, his eye brows were missing just like the hair on his head. His mouth was sewn together to prevent him from screaming and yelling. Commander Jabsco was washing his medical tools and looked at the Corporal and Lieutenant in the mirror.

"There he is, the man of the hour," greeted Jabsco with a warm temperament, "the Survivor of Crossroads, the Returner of Cobb. Corporal, there is a bright future for you," his demeanor became cold as he looked to the Lieutenant, "you may leave."

"Yes, Commander Jabsco," replied the Lieutenant as he walked up the stairs to leave, his boots clanking on the metal.

"From what I was told, the celebrations went on until the morning lights came," Jabsco laid out his sadistic tools on the gurney, "I on the other hand was busy with Galvin."

"Does former Commander Cobb still live," inquired Pop as he looked to the Talon Company leader, "Commander Jabsco."

"Yes, the traitor lives," answered Jabsco with a frown, "what concern of it is yours, Corporal?"

"Sir, all of my friends were in the Second Scouts," lied Pop as he set the seeds of a false background, "I'd like to know that they died for…something."

"I see where this leading," laughed Jabsco as he shook his head and patted Pop on the shoulder, Lolli knew to accept the pat but to never touch the Commander in the like, "I can't make you squad leader for the Second Scouts, too much of a promotion and I already have selected the person for the position. I will make you Sergeant and you can muster those men I chose into shape."

"No, sir, I of all people am not qualified for it," replied Pop with modesty that made Jabsco stop himself and look over the Operative.

"What is it you want, Corporal, if not a promotion," asked the Commander of Talon Company, "women, men, chems, caps?"

"Sir, with all due respect, Galvin Cobb is the only reason why I made it back to Fort Bannister," admitted Pop, three ears were presented from the handkerchief that held them, "we were attacked by Regulators, his actions saved my life. My request to you would a difficult one to follow, but I ask you spare the lowly Cobb and see to it that he can reclaim respect amongst Talon Company once again."

"Cobb is a liar, a coward and a murderer," seethed Jabsco through gritted teeth, "I will do as I like with him, because there is no chance for a beast like that to gain redemption. You have provided Talon Company with one thing they lacked, a willingness to survive and succeed. For the last seven years, Talon mercenaries were known for their ruthlessness and cowardice. Cobb made that a standard practice."

"Cobb and I can take back Takoma, given the recreation of the Second Scouts," replied Pop firmly as he looked into Jabsco's eyes, the Commander knew this Corporal had a fire in his belly to prove himself.

"Takoma is a death trap, sending any men there would be a loss for this outfit. Cobb left half of the Company out there to get slaughtered like animals by super mutants. Now you're willing to enter hell with him by your side?" Commander Jabsco already knew his answer and helda grimace on his face, "no."

"What better man to lead us into hell than the one that escaped, sir," answered Pop as he referred to Cobb, "we'll take back Takoma for you and for Talon Company."

The Commander looked at the man that sat bound to the chair, the silence from Jabsco moved Pop to look at him as well before the head of Talon Company spoke, "I always look for use out of all my mercenaries, Corporal. I look for them to gain contracts, fulfill contracts, and die for those contracts if need be. I am surrounded in failure on a daily basis, men just like Cobb or Hathaway, here. I question all Talons on the sincerity of their words. Given the chance, I know anyone of these men would put a bullet in the back of my head to gain my position. And then it would all come crumbling apart.

"Talon Company would be no more, all of our specialized groups would separate into smaller bands and conflict would be inevitable. I believe you see this, that I maintain the peace with an iron fist and resolve," Jabsco's words made the man in pain roll his eyes, unable to communicate with his mouth, "from time to time, there are those that need to be re-educated, like Hathway. However, it is not hard to see when there is one among us that the others look to for certain reasons. Cobb has described your loyalty to Talon Company and your accomplishments while out in the wastes.

"Corporal, if you play it smart, you will be worth more to me than a continual contract from the Pitt or Evergreen Mills. You have inspired the other mercenaries to behavior in way that is not single minded. I cannot risk losing you to a suicide mission, plain and simple," Jabsco looked Pop in the eyes and held his shoulder, "you are to be made Sergeant in the Second Scouts. I need you to train those men that I put under your charge to be as qualified as you. I need them to walk through fire without a moment's thought or hesitation.

"Then, and only then, after this group has been trained in three months' time, will I consider an application to retake Takoma Industrial Park," a faint smile was on the Commander's face as he hoped this preverbal carrot – on – a – stick would convince the Corporal, "is this understood Sergeant?"

"What are you plans for Galvin Cobb in this time," asked Pop, clearly referencing the former mercenary named Hathaway in front of them.

"My plans for the traitor are my own," said Jabsco with a frown, as he looked to the man bound to the chair, "my plans are not to turn him into a tool like Hathaway. I will do with him as I please without a low ranking mercenary questioning my every move."

"Sir, yes, sir," replied Pop as he stood to attention and took the clear meaning of the Talon Commander.

"Sergeant, you are to report to Lieutenant Star – Dancer, she will be replacing Fields as the CO of Second Scouts," ordered Commander Jabsco as he turned back to his supplies and fetched something from the table, "and one more thing, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir," asked Pop as the Commander handed him the appropriate insignia for a United States Army Sergeant.

"What do they call you," asked Jabsco with a crooked smile and a handshake.

"Well, um, my name from… Little Lamplight was Candy Pop," was the quickest lie Lolli could come up with.

"No that won't do, not for the Hero of Talon Company," Commander Jabsco shook his head and snapped his fingers after a second, "from this day forward, you will be Sergeant Yao Guai."

"Yes, sir," replied Operative Pop, breathing a little easier.

"Sergeant Yao Guai, Lieutenant Star – Dancer is waiting," reminded the Commander as Pop left, never turning his back from Jabsco.

"No offense is meant Knight Captain," assured Scribe Actaeon as Galeas was squatting near the ruined remains of a church in a pre- war township of Calverton, "but the recon armor is a dead giveaway that you're not a regular wastelander…and we'd prefer to remain inconspicuous."

"The belfry is in disrepair and I cannot keep a proper sight on you from this area," replied Galeas as she noted no scope on her laser rifle.

"We're more than capable," reassured Actaeon as he nodded for Operative Anna LaCroix to follow him.

Actaeon adjusted his hood to cover his face and protected his eyes, nose, and mouth from the elements of the chilling wasteland desert. December was nearing its end and the winter cold was quickly increasing, while precipitation wouldn't be an issue in the desert regions the cold would be the biggest issue. They walked in a straight formation, Actaeon leading the way for LaCroix, on the quickest possible route to Evergreen Mills on the train tracks. The quarry cut into the hill overpowered the sky, walking between the box cars and mines took extreme care as the morning sun was obscured by the stone walls. Raiders of Evergreen Mills watched the two travelers enter the outskirts of the city. Many settlers called them raiders but these people collectively knew each other as Independents because they claimed no reliance on religions, governments or sciences. Their dispositions to outsiders were not friendly; those members of civilized society were easy prey.

Benny the Super Mutant Behemoth was still caged in a feat of engineering that towered taller than its height and had a series of generators providing enough electricity to keep the monster caged. The poorest raiders lived in the box cars and huts made around the main compound and bazaar. Packs of dirty kids, some close to being stark naked, ran in between the box cars and huts bumping in to people and occasionally stealing what they could with their quick and nimble fingers. Actaeon had warned LaCroix about this, so it was decided that Galeas would watch over their cap pouches, each Operative had just ten caps on hand. Slaves were held in pens under hanging and grounded walkways built into the quarry rock face.

The man made valley had once been used for steel production. The blast furnace in the north had not been operational even before the Great War, an outcome of the Resource Wars. Now the quarry was used to remove the amounts of limestone to help produce concrete, a useful product. As Actaeon had reported, LaCroix now saw that the community of Evergreen Mills was a raider city under the laissez – faire rule of a leader known as Foreman.

There was no security force, no police or militia, the rule of justice was through the bullet. The bazaar stalls were still open in the courtyard of the Mills, traders yelling and hocking their wares. A cold wind made the multiple colors of cloth awnings and roofs billow and violently flap. Actaeon warned LaCroix not to draw attention to them, and to watch his back as he knew these people would have no trouble putting a bullet in his back. The Scribe walked up to a fruit monger asking if they had seen Samuel Warrick, the fruit seller has not inclined to say. Several other merchants held their lips tight when asked as well.

"Do you know where Warrick, the bounty hunter, is," the Scribe asked to a weapons dealer in the bazaar.

"Well, iffn I were to tell yah, Hood, what would receive in return," said the merchant as he cleared the barrel of a ten millimeter pistol.

"Less buckshot in your brain," threatened Actaeon as he held his finger to the trigger guard of his shotgun, the sniper rifle still strapped to his back.

"I see," supposed the merchant as he looked across the bazaar to a man behind the Scribe.

Just behind Actaeon was a man in a rag tunic that held a cloth garrote taught in his hands and knot in the middle. He lifted his arms to put the cloth around the Scribe's neck, prepared to silently strangle him to protect his employer. The strangler felt two jabs, one under each armpit before he found it hard to breath and there was no strength in his arms. LaCroix had sunk two blades in the stranglers' armpits. The weapon merchant's thug made an 'umphf' sound as air escaped his punctured lungs.

She flopped the rag wearing strangler on the merchant's counter before turning to Actaeon, "threat neutralized."

Without missing a beat, Scribe Actaeon reached forward and pulled the weapons merchant to him; the barrel of his shotgun firmly jabbed to merchant's neck, "did you think I was lying? Don't fuck with me!"

"O…okay, boss," pleaded the weapons merchant as LaCroix checked the hired raider's body for anything of value and then disappeared into the crowd.

"Where is Samuel Warrick," asked Actaeon through gritted teeth as his spittle hit the merchant in the face.

"I…I don't know," answered the merchant as his right eye squinted with the spit stinging, feeling the barrel pressure against his throat more, he continued, "but…but, the vender over in Canterbury Commons has been purchasing more point three zero eight caliber ammo. Five times more than usual, actually."

"Don't make me draw the conclusions," warned the Scribe as his impatience.

"A sniper is in the Commons, one that uses ammo," said the merchant, "the only independent sniper worth his salt over gunpowder is Warrick. I'd bet you anything that Sammy is in Canterbury Commons."

"You are betting," agreed Actaeon as he removed the gun from the weapons merchant's neck, "with your life. I find out you're lying to me and your life will take a long time to be over…because I'm not as good as she is with a blade."

To enforce the point, the Scribe slammed the merchants' head into the counter. The trader fell back in a daze as Actaon and LaCroix left to return to Calverton. Anna wiped off her blades and holstered them in her belt. She leaned to the Scribe to have a quiet comment.

"Do you think he was telling the truth," asked LaCroix, skepticism in her tone of voice.

"He backed it up with his business," Actaeon reasoned as he kept a constant pace and swiveled his head from side to side to better see the large landscape, "if not, I'll come back and fulfill my promise."

"I wouldn't expect him to stay in that place any longer," Anna stretched her arms as she kept her eyes on the wasteland as well.

"He's been doing business at the Mills for a while," replied the Scribe as they kept walking out of Evergreen Mills and to Calverton, "I doubt he'll pick up shop because of little old me, my big mouth, and your uncanny ability with a blade."

Samuel Warrick had been making a living while waiting around for the Republic to decide if they wanted his information. Gaining the work was slightly difficult as not many people would trust a newcomer to Canterbury Commons for being a bounty hunter. Dominic D'Ellsadro and Machete, the two human members that made up the local law enforcement, had taken pity on him and contracted him to kill a nest of radscorpions. The hard carapaces of the radscorpions required him to use much more .308 ammo than he would have liked, but in the end Warrick had eliminated the nest. He made decent caps, from the meat, venom and contract, and the work opened him to others in the community. Raiders from Evergreen Mills had tasked him with clearing out an underground facility that was said to have been an 'evil lair of a super villain known as the Ant-Agonizer,' or so one of the local kids told him.

He had found many ants in that structure and he handled it well enough to earn a few extra caps. Warrick didn't interfere in the politics of Canterbury Commons, it was not his place to, but he did offer his service to all those willing to pay. However, the contracts were still light and easy and he made enough to recuperate the cost of his ammo expenditure and renting a hotel room. There was a knock on the door to his hotel room. Samuel cocked a handgun he kept as back up to his sniper rifle and held it to the door. He slowly opened it to see that it was the brick and mortar dealer, the agent of the Republic, Phineas. Warrick relaxed the hammer of his handgun put it in the leather waistband of his pants. Opening the door just enough for the old man to pass through, the Republican agent eyed the iron tucked into the bounty hunter's pants.

"Expecting someone else," asked Phineas with a frown.

"Hopefully not," answered Warrick as he locked the door for his hotel room, "my information is useful to other people, do not expect me to sit on it for the Republic only."

Phineas huffed as he unfurled a piece of paper with an emblem on it that looked like an 'R' super imposed on an eagle, a long thought extinct bird since the Great War, "the President wishes to speak with you in person. I am here to give you this…pass visa to the Republic."

"Ha, yah are joking me, yeah," Warrick smiled and shook his head, he also found it funny that the 'R' on paper could stand for either Rosie or the Republic, "I'm not going any place I don't know I'll be able tah get out of, alive."

"Is this not what you wanted," Phineas was confused by the bounty hunter, deciding he misheard him he leant his good left ear closer to hear.

"With what I'm doing, ain't bad in being too careful," Warrick licked his cracked and dried lips as he looked at the window to check the street, "I'll set up a place tah meet, but those are my terms."

"Listen, I sent the message, those are her conditions," Phineas crossed his arms, clearly thinking his job was complete, and there was a long awkward pause where the Republican agent looked at the bounty hunter who looked out the window, "mind unlocking the door so I can leave?"

"If that is how your President feels, I can respect her decision," commented Warrick as he walked to the door with a head bounce, "just don't expect me to sit on this information. I'm in the business of making money, just wanted a chance to do the right thing."

Phineas smiled benignly, "I hope you make your money, Samuel Warrick," as the bounty hunter let him out.

The old man that sold brick and mortar for the Republic left the hotel. Samuel Warrick closed and locked his door as he watched Phineas walk out onto the street and over to the other merchants. The bounty hunter thought to himself, _I always get paid, Phineas, always._

Operative Daniel Roe had never been on a ship before but even he could tell this bucket was a piece of shit. The ghouls were noncommittal to the boat or plan, and understood to not ask questions when orders came from 'Mister Alexandria'. The captain, Greene, was a pegged leg sea dog with love for the water and his rusted ship. It had started life originally as a recreational forty – six foot cruising yacht. Over the centuries, captains and crews had added and replaced multiple parts to make the vessel a mutt of a sailing boat. Her hull was originally made from wood and had rotted many years before was now covered, reinforced and in portions replaced by welded metal at various degrees of rust and galvanization.

The keel was replaced with metal as well and the bow was equipped with a harpoon gun powered by a pressurized gas canister. Pressurized cartridges could be made through sealing the used ones and heating the canisters. However, this process clearly took time and led to the harpoon gun being more of an ornament. The stern held two swivel mounted miniguns with twin box ammo feeders welded to both and protective metal sheets. The crow's nest was nothing but a small triangle of metal near the top of the mast that was large enough to sit one and half buttocks. The mast stood a full fifty – eight feet in height to hold the mainsail as the headsail went all the way to the bow.

The one thing that did not seem to be replaced, repaired, or repurposed was the original name of the vessel: _Majesty_. Greene talked about her as if it were his wife, and considering they had been together for over thirty years it was his longest and most stable relationship. He walked about the deck with more easily than land, given his peg leg and the need to ride the ship as the bay rocked it up and down. Captain Greene turned to the mercenaries as he held his arms out wide to inhale the air.

"Doesn't it just feel…regal?" Exclaimed Ol' Greene as he breathed out, Roe and his team stood on the temporary docks south of Grayditch were the _Majesty_ was anchored.

"Yes, that is the …word," yelled back Roe as he shook his head with distrust to the water going vessel he would have renamed _The Sieve_.

"Have your ghouls load up your gear on the top deck with my crew," declared Greene as he walked the deck, "we'll pull up anchor in two hours and reach Point Lookout in a fortnight."

"Wait, why Point lookout, we have a deal Greene," Roe jumped on board with the old captain.

"And Ol' Greene will fulfill what he and her _Majeesty_ are contracted to do," Greene stared at the boy in utter contempt, "leave the piloting to me, seeing as you're crew now. We head to Point Lookout to buy and sell supplies that are needed to make your journey. Anchors up in two hours," yelled out Greene to the rest of the crew.

Roe grumbled but jumped back on to the dock to talk with his team, "load up the boat and help out the crew, we leave in two hours."

Da'an said something in Mandarin that caused most of the ghouls to smile, if not laugh. Franklin translated, "he said that ship couldn't float one of his turds."

"The _Majesty_ has out run some of the worst pirates the Chesapeake has ever seen," announced a man that had dark hair, eyes and a light skin that seemed to glow in the sun light. His hair fell loose around his head in curled ringlets. A set of sideburns crept down his jaw and bushed out like the hair of a yao guai, and his voice cut as painfully as the animal's claws, "only thing that need be worried about is the Vandykers."

"What's a Vandyker," asked Tamara with her hands on her hips, "and who the fuck are you?"

"Tarek ibn Khalid, first mate to Cap'n Greene of the _Majesty_," the man replied as he rubbed his calloused palms against the rag he called a shirt and presented hands to shake, "and Vandykers are worse than pirates, they hunt in packs and have no honor. No one wants to stand up to them since their organizational leader became a judge."

"Well, E-bahn Khalid, hopefully we won't meet these Vandykers," replied Roe with hopeful smile and pat on the first mate's back as he moved back to the ship and the side of Captain Greene, "team, start loading up the ship with the crew."

Tarek ibn Khalid grumbled as he returned to the group waving the mercenaries to follow him. The rest of the crew were loading up provisions in crates, most only just wore sack like pants that were tied off just under the knees. Bare chests and feet were hit by the sun and the water spray of the bay. Tarek thought,_ a woman on board will bring us back luck_, as his eyes bore holes into the back of the ghoul that had talked before.

Mayor Henry Fleet sat in his office as he reviewed notes from the latest council meetings and the Five Settlements Talks, as the participants referred to it in short. The Grayditch Council was discussing mundane items like zoning for merchant stalls and the increasing of the town limits to other structures to accommodate the growing population. Perhaps the salvage from these buildings would help the City of Grayditch, but so two would the relationship with the other four settlements. For Fleet, the large issue was that the Five Settlements Talks to create a more stable economy in the Capital Wasteland had stalled.

Mister Burke from Tenpenny Tower, the right hand man for a rich English miser, had unofficially removed himself from the talks. The Five Settlements Talks were put on a temporary hiatus for this reason. Individual representatives from the other settlements were talking amongst themselves and pursuing their own interests in the city. All of the delegates had remained in the city, even the aforementioned Mister Burke. The guards reported movements of all of the representatives. Each one had their own shadow courtesy of Marshall Lawson and the Graydtich Guards, his own Marshalls helping to maintain order in the city.

Seagrave Holmes was attempting to branch his salvage and repair company out to Grayditch with a local contractor. Vala was looking into all the systems used to run the city, including the sewage system and wind turbines that had been erected to supply power through the recovered electrical grid. Billy Creel was investigating the schooling system, deciding if she had a better future with him, the Vault or in Grayditch. Of all the representatives, Creel was the one pushing to have Burke return to the table because it would allow him to return to Megaton and his adoptive daughter. Mister Burke however was a more obscure figure, the guards reported him at Benjamin's Respite complaining that the drinks were swill or that the food tasted like it had already came out of one person before hitting his plate. Burke's commented on hos Grayditch was a city of decay and that this boomtown would bust, unlike the firm standing rock of Tenpenny Tower.

Henry Fleet calmly put his files aside as his mind raced a mile minute. Taking a deep breath, the Mayor of Grayditch took out some paper and a writing utensil. Fleet paused before he began what he figured would be the death of his career in politics and leadership. The Brotherhood of Steel no longer ran our policed the streets of Grayditch, their role had been reduced to one of scientific research and relatively small and highly visible presence. Yet more and more of the Grayditch citizenry were still upset at the Brotherhood of Steel and comments were being made that Fleet was an appeaser. The trial had gained the city and Fleet fame; and with fame came criticism.

_Surely, what I am about to do will go against me_, he thought of losing his position as mayor, _but it would serve the city in the long run_. If he were to be voted or expelled out of office in the upcoming months or year, which he surmised was probable more than possible, Fleet felt that within ten years' time he would be able to return to the position. Ten years was not looking to be a long time in the wasteland, order and law could be established in half of a year in one city and now other settlements were moving to follow en suit. Smoothing out the paper Fleet mused, _that many great can happen in that time_. He began to write the words: Dear Scribe Jameson, of the Brotherhood of Steel….

Operative Juan Alvarado felt he had become a pack animal for the two Regulators taking him out to Dickerson. The pack strapped to his back weighed nearly seventy pounds and had been secured around his chest and waist to prevent it from sliding. A coffee pot and skillet hung from the pack and clanged together as they walked. The black Regulator, Oscar, walked ahead of Alvarado and the blonde Regulator. Her name was Brittany Ward, the irony being that her parents were English immigrants and the accent was engrained her. Ward's nickname among the Regulators was Brit. She favored a bolt action hunting rifle with a scope while Oscar preferred submachine guns and shotguns.

The three of them encountered a few creatures that did not test their skills and were put down quickly, their pace did not change. They were making the trip in an arch around Paradise Falls to avoid a large gun fight. They had already passed Minefield and Reclining Groves Resting Home. Oscar said they were to make Mason Dixon Salvage by nightfall to camp out in an abandon building that was there. This route would bypass the slavers. It was also the quickest path.

"So, uh, Brit, why are we heading to Dickerson," asked Juan as he had to scamper every few feet to keep up with their long strides.

"Froshies don't ask questions, they follow Regulators," retorted Ward as she flipped her platinum blonde hair back, off her fair skin.

"I might be a Froshie, but I am not green," contended Alvarado as he shifted the pack and kept up with the Regulators.

Brittany nodded and filed the information away in her head still ignoring the question. She indicated Alvarado's arm, "how did it happen?"

"What, my arm?" Asked Alvarado as he rolled his rolled the shoulder, the only part with any mobility in the arm, "a Brotherhood Scribe shot me with a plasma pistol in a confusing event in Grayditch."

"You were found guilty, weren't you?" Brit flicked her bolt back and forth on the lock, making an audible click.

"Breaking and entry, and theft," confirmed Juan with a frown, there was no point to elaborate as the trial was common knowledge. Trying to find some meaning, he stretched the truth, "but I'll take the silver lining of exposing a crazy scientist that sought assistance from the Enclave and was probably a secret agent for the Commonwealth."

"Why does the Brotherhood of Steel keep those people locked up like animals?" Brit was curious, as she was the daughter of English immigrants, "my parents were not stopped from freely moving about when they crossed the ocean."

"They are not here for immigration, Brit, they are here for a pilgrimage," replied Juan as he adjusted the submachine gun. "Just imagine the fools running around the D.C. Ruins and the Brotherhood would have their hands tied trying to contain the super mutant menace."

"I've never been one for politics," her tone was jovial but it did not reach her eyes. She turned to her Regulator partner, "Os and I are just good Regulators, isn't that right?"

"Ain't been a truer word out of that pretty mouth of yours, Brit," agreed the black Regulator as he kept his eyes ahead of them to the landscape.

"I'd like to hear why we're heading to Dickerson," Juan repeated the question as he tripped a little on the uneven ground.

"Shut your mouth," ordered Oscar as he motioned for the team to drop down low.

Brit crawled her way forward, "what do you see, Os?"

"Enclave radio tower," replied the Regulator with cornrows as he took out his binoculars, "and no one is home."

"Alvarado, stay behind and secure our backs. We're going in," ordered Brit as she and Oscar made their way to the Enclave camp.

Juan stayed back and watched the Regulators through Oscar's binoculars. Brit and Os made it out to the camp and searched the set up military tents and research station. Brit walked out of a tent to talk with Oscar. Juan observed them gesticulating and talking between three tents and the radio tower. Oscar waved his hand to beckon the Operative over.

Alvarado got up and jogged over to the Regulators' position. The kettle and skillet tethered to the supply pack clanged loudly as he ran to the Brittany Ward and Oscar. Juan panted as he looked around the camp, clear signs of battle had occurred. Explosion marks, charred earth, and pieces of armor, there was little blood and no bodies whatsoever. Alvarado unhooked the supply bag and let it fall to the ground.

"What do you think you're doing, Froshie," asked Oscar as he looked Alvarado over.

"There may be something we can salvage," Juan actually wanted to find some intelligence to send back to the Alexandria.

"No bodies or weapons," commented Brit with a frown. She kicked sand into the site of an old fire, "these thinks have been occurring all over the wasteland."

"What do you mean," asked Juan as he searched the desk the terminal sat on in a tent that had more holes in it than cloth.

"Wait, it could be booby trapped!" Oscar warned to the Regulator Froshie as he jumped on the terminal.

"It wouldn't matter anyway," commented Juan Alvarado as he frustratingly hit the keyboard, "this terminal is locked out. Probably some raider tried to use this and the fucker didn't know what he was doing."

"This site must be old," confirmed Brit as she reached down and picked up the earth around an explosion, "this isn't slavers, far to clean to be slavers."

"Slavers would be no match for an Enclave outpost, those black power armored fucks would have captured or killed them easily," stated Alvarado as he searched through paper files to find them all destroyed by the elements, "what are you thinking, Oscar?"

"Fuck'em, got what they deserved," said Oscar as he spat on the ground and rubbed it in with his boot, "let's move on out, this place has been picked clean before us, we're burning daylight."

In the underground complex of the National Security Headquarters, Operative Quintus Schieber and Jamie Bors were sitting with Fredrick Niche around a table on the floor's cafeteria. They were playing a game of cards, the ghoul was happy to have companions to play with after countless sessions of solitaire. Bors was telling jokes and stories from being a little kid traveling across the country and living in the Citadel. Schieber was finding our more of Bors' life from these conversations than from their work together. Apparently the man had a gift for gab when it came to strangers than colleagues.

"My boy loved that pup, named him Wruff cause when he asked the dog his name," Jamie laughed and whipped a tear form his cheek before it got into his beard, "and the god darn pup answered him right back 'wruff'. Just like that, my boy named him."

"A boy and his dog," Fredrick smiled as he dealt the cards, "nothing reminds me more of my childhood. I had a dog, called her Vera after the actress."

"Niche, I have to ask, why did you stay down here so long," Schieber played his cards in the game they had going.

Fredrick had a sad smile on his face, "I wasn't alone the whole time. There was more radiation than we expected. It was all particles in the air. The air filters scrubbed the particles, but then those filters became irradiated. Most died in the few months, there were a hundred and fifty –three of us by twenty seventy – eight.

"Imagine it, of all ten thousand eight hundred and fifty – six of us and only one hundred and fifty – three were left alive. We stayed here for some time, awaiting the radiation to dissipate. We only found out later that radiation was being pumped into our air system. Field Chief Lerner took command of us shortly after. He was one of the only high ranking NSA agents we had left. Lerner moved to fortify headquarters for the impending Chinese invasion. But others, others wanted to leave.

"In the fall of Twenty Eighty – Eight, the first group left, there were fifteen of them. We never heard back from them. In Twenty Ninety – One, a second group left, there were thirty – three of them…one was my wife, Estelle. I understood her reasoning to leave, but by that time some of us had begun to change. Those that stayed behind here were mainly those clearly showing symptoms of some kind…of illness. I was one of those people."

"You worked with your wife," asked Bors, trying to move the topic away from what happened after the bombs fell.

"Estelle and I worked in the same building. I was in cryptology and she was in translations and analysis," answered Niche, his nostalgia clouding his mind, "we met in this room actually, late one night. I was working on an old type Vigenère cipher and she was translating intercepted government communiqués between the Soviets and China. We both liked inner city jazz and aged tomes on the original travels and settlement of the Americas.

"I…I stayed here, afraid of what was out there and what was happening to me," confided Fredrick as he frowned, his rotted lips cracking at the corners, "I was a damned fool. It took many years for the others to begin to change, some stayed and took care of us, but they did eventually change. It was slow at first, but by Twenty – One O' Two, we were all in my present state, but the others became worse. I still like to think that Estelle is alive out there, somewhere, helping others," his smile seemed forced, clearly showing that his hope was but a hopeful lie.

"We…regretfully killed some feral ghouls on our way down to meet you," informed Schieber as Niche held his rotting palm to his head, rubbing the bald and scabbed top.

"It is better that you did," confessed Fred as he stood up and paced in the cafeteria, "I hate to refer to my colleagues as a burden. I am the protector of this complex, but also their keeper; I am afraid to become one of them. To lose my…mind, my being."

"You haven't yet," confirmed Bors, not certain of ghoul psychology.

"I…," Niche held his tongue as he thought, _I feel myself slipping away sometimes_.

"It is okay, Fred, come and return to our game," Schieber tried to lighten up the mood.

"I…I need to rest," said Niche as he walked out of the cafeteria to his quarters.

Bors stared into the young Operative's eyes. "What," asked Quin as he brushed back his hair, "our original plan did not involve living much past this point."

"Freddie has treated us alright," said Quin nonchalantly. Adding, "he's even taking the end of the United States very well."

"If he's truly accepted it, that is," retorted Bors with concern to their host's sanity. "He's spent two hundred years thinking they were successful to some point. Only now to find out in that last two years that her was gravely mistaken."

"He took the news in stride," valued Schieber, his eyes going to the left corner as he concentrated to recall thought, "or I thought so, anyways."

"You have much to learn about people," established Jamie Bors.

Elder Reginald Rothchild sat in the tent office that belonged to George Schultz, the Ambassador of the Commonwealth. Their relationship had successfully become cold, merely sharing pleasantries. Rothchild asked for this meeting as a way to keep communication between them going. Word of the Prince of Brandia's journey to the Mall had traveled quickly through camp. Schultz knew that if any valued member of the civilian expedition were to die that it would look bad upon him and the hosts. The elderly statesman handed the Elder a drink in a tumbler as he sat on his desk.

"Our micro fission generators have been sporadic, so please pardon the lack of ice to go with that scotch," he politely said, Rothchild had the distinct opinion that Schultz did not suffer from a lack of drinking. "Though I did give a splash of that fresh water you use to let it breath."

"Thank you, George," replied the Elder as he took a sip, _the man preferred to be pickled than clear headed_, he thought as he remained in silence.

"Reginald, must we constantly share these brief talks," complained the Ambassador as he stretched out breathing. Rolling his eyes he continued to speak as the Elder remained stoic and silent. "Come now, I've heard the incident from the Prince himself, it was a simple error in communication. I hardly doubt we need to be in such lockdown conditions."

"George, based on the events that have occurred recently a lockdown is the only way for use to guarantee your security." Stated Reginald and then took a sip, he ignored how Schultz tried to underplay the situation, "the Prince of Brandia almost died in the Mall if it were not for the work of Knights Ban and Newton. Several of his personal bodyguard did die at the Mall. Your protection is our main concern."

"We thank you for the protection," Schultz's tone was not appreciative. In fact, Rothchild noted that the Commonwealth Ambassador seemed rather displeased and upset. "What is the Brotherhood planning to do as you now know that the Enclave never really collapsed out here?"

"Blunt and to the point, George," smiled Rothchild as he looked the Ambassador up and down to try and read the man. The old politician betrayed no emotion, "we wish to open diplomatic relations with the Enclave, with your assistance."

Schultz scoffed and finished his drink, "that is a tall order, Reginald." The Commonwealth Ambassador admitted and continued, "a tall order like that will require several concessions on the part of the Brotherhood of Steel."

"What sort of concessions are we to consider," asked the Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel.

"Firstly, to make connection with the Enclave in the area I will need to use the communication center of the _Law and Order_, from there we can relay messages through the _Justice_ to New Cambridge." George Schultz explained in a dry even tone, his slight slurring drunkenness diminished, Rothchild was beginning to suspect the man put on the act so others underestimated him. The Ambassador of the Commonwealth continued, "this lockdown on our encampment will need to cease and free movement will need to be given. Likewise, a proper encampment will need to be created on a territory completely and entirely administered by the Commonwealth and its member nations."

"This is ridiculous, you expect us to give up a chunk of our territory out of our control?" The Elder did not like most of the proposed requirements coming from the Ambassador.

"You barely control anything here," quipped Schultz as he walked over to his drinking cabinet to pour another scotch, "controlled anarchy would be the best term to use. There is no government here, just tribes. And do you know what the Commonwealth has done with tribes? We've uplifted some and eliminated others. Which is it do you want to be, uplifted or eliminated?"

"Sounds more like Enclave rhetoric than one from a government that fought their independence from such devious devils," Reginald Rothchild was surprised at the man's comment, "I hope you're talking drunk so I do not construe these words in a wrong manner."

"I'm not as drunk as I'd like to be," acknowledged Schultz as he continued to drink. He turned back to a leader of the largest military organization in the former Capitol of the United States of America, "the more governments grow the more they turn into one another. Your willingness to talk with the Enclave is showing that you are prepared to forgive their trespasses upon your group. During the Enclave – Commonwealth War both sides committed great crimes against the other and in some cases it was difficult to determine who it was that used the worst tactics, but in the end we came to a truce."

"We wish to avoid war and from that gain prosperity," answered Rothchild, biting his bottom lip, "we are not going to risk the lives of the people here."

"Don't you see you already have?" Schultz dismissed Rothchild's statement as he continued to drink and pace, "your man barks on the radio about joining the glorious good fight and so forth, you've brought them into this, Reginald. If you are not willing to parcel off some land for the possibility of freedom, then you should prepare for war."

"This is not funny, George," informed Reginald, pissed off that Schultz was getting drunker and willing to carve out a piece of land from the Capitol.

"You're right, Reggie, it's _not_ funny." George agreed as he poured more, "there is a third option. If you were to join the Commonwealth…"

"Are you asking the people of the Capital Wasteland to bend their necks to the yoke of the Commonwealth?" Reginald was standing up as he set his drink aside, holding his breath and thinking fast, "I think…this meeting is over, George."

Elder Reginald Rothchild turned to leave, his blue robes swaying as he turned, as Schultz grabbed his arm, "think of it, if you were to become a client kingdom of the Commonwealth them there would be no war with the Enclave, you'd receive several of the best trading economies in this New World, and all the technical knowledge you can gain!"

"Get your hand off me, George," ordered Reginald, not even looking the man in the eye.

"You're already like us, Reggie!" He exclaimed, turning one of the leaders of the Brotherhood of Steel to face him, "you gather and protect knowledge. That defines the existence of the Commonwealth and the Institute. It is not just the connection of shared government between these bastard nations, but the pursuit of knowledge for the Commonwealth of Humanity! We are the same!"

Elder Rothchild punched George Schultz in the face with a left hook at full force. The Ambassador fell backwards over a chair, his ass flying over his elbows as he landed on the dirt. Brushing the dust and dirt from his suit as he looked up to Reginald, George remained down on the trampled earthen floor. "We are not the same," replied Rothchild as he shook his old hand and walked out the tent flap, "I'll see you…some other day."

George Schultz rubbed his jaw as he watched Reginald Rothchild leave. Standing up and pouring another glass he held it to his jaw. The warm liquid and glass pissed him off because it wasn't going to bring down his swelling and he threw it to the corner of the room. The tent was stained in scotch as the glass hit the fabric and fell to the earthen floor and broke. He sat at his desk and brought up his terminal to send a message to the _Law & Order_, the throbbing began in his head. _We're more equal than you know_, thought Ambassador Schultz of the Commonwealth, _and that makes you a threat, Reggie, a large threat_.


	4. Truths Without Fact

I do not own Fallout, nor do I own the rights to the Fallout Universe. No profit is being derived from this work of fiction, it is purely for pleasure.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 4.) Truths Without Fact

Samuel Warrick wanted to do the honorable and good actions that opportunity afforded, based on a ratio of profit and danger. He wanted to give the Republic a chance at revenge. Instead they snubbed their nose at him. Now he did what he needed to, to make his money. Unfortunately, the slavers and raiders of Evergreen Mills had enough caps to quench the bounty hunter's thrust for caps.

While the citizens of Canterbury Commons, like the merchant king Ernest Roe, didn't want to admit slaves were sold in his quant little town. A blind eye was turned to these underground black market deals. An old lair of a super villain that terrorized the town now housed some independent raiders and those loyal to the Mills. Public sales were not allowed in the Anti-Agonizer's former nest. Only special invitation was given due to the paranoia the Independents faced near civilized society.

Slavery was part of the black market in Canterbury Commons, along with sex and illicit chems. The half remaining utility tunnels gave way to caverns of rock and beams. Warrick tread carefully down the halls, armed slavers and seedy merchants starring him in the eyes and through the back of his head. He walked the maintenance tunnels and caverns till he got to the main underground cavern. The remains of the Ant-Agonizers throne still stood, a passed out drunk raider lounging on the chair. Several Independents from Evergreen Mills sat around a table, their slaves chained to a moist cave wall.

"Who here represents the Foreman," asked Warrick as the card game went quiet with his presence.

"We all speak for him," responded a man in leather armor that was reinforced with metal, his complexion dark and his hair a mix of salt and pepper.

"Then I have and offer, to help out the Mills," presented Warrick.

"Bounty hunter, speak your mind," the man's tone was dismissive, though his impatience wore thin, "come, hunter, wag your tongue!"

"I would prefer to do it more privately," said Warrick as he pointed out the chained slaves on the cavern wall.

"Do not fret the merchandise," the Independent said as he played his cards at the table.

"I have built a connection with the Republic's man in Canterbury Commons," said Warrick as he man eyed him and folded the next hand, "seeing as the Foreman specializes in concrete and the Republic specializes in brick and mortar…."

"Enough, bounty hunter, what is your price?" asked the Independent as he took a piece of paper to write a crude message on.

"I would like fifteen thousand caps," answered Warrick, loving how slavers would wheel and deal with bigger purses, not being picky on the opportunities that became available.

"Okay, you know Foreman won't go for that," answered the raider as he scrawled on the paper, "I'm going to ask him to free up twelve thousand caps for your info, along with your cooperation in the future, of course."

"What do you mean by cooperation," Sam became weary with the words this Independent was using.

"We may call on you to help us," said the raider, "might be in your field of expertise, or not."

Samuel Warrick was hesitant with the way this raider phrased that particular statement. As a bounty hunter, he was independent and sought no support from an organization on a permanent basis. Warrick decided on who were his clients and refused to sign with any organization, from Littlehorn and Associates to the Regulators, as he preferred to be his own boss. Evergreen Mills was him 'on call' did not sit well in his gut. He left the underground lair with a shiver traveling down his back.

In a dingy room above a lesser known bar sat two people. Both came from different walks of life in the wasteland. Mayor Henry Fleet ran the City of Grayditch, the fastest growing settlement carved out of the ruins of D.C. Elizabeth Jameson was the Head Scribe for the Brotherhood of Steel. Fleet was one of the best connected individuals in the Capital Wasteland, whereas Jameson was one of the most educated people. They were not lovers or even colleagues, so when the two of them were seen in entering the less then admirable tavern, patrons took notice.

Fleet knew that word will travel fast and his position as Mayor might be short lived because of his relationship with the Brotherhood of Steel. He admitted to himself that their organization was useful, when they chose to be. The rule of law and the ability to enforce it through a judicial system, and Marshall Lawson's men, arrived on the shoulders of Jameson. And despite the promotion of a fair judiciary and trial system, one member of her Brotherhood had been killed out of the legal code and another exiled. She was his only choice when it came to solving issues with the Five Settlement Talks.

The Five Settlement Talks were in a dead stall. Fleet had been intercepting messages from couriers to find out more information on the representatives. Intercepting these messages was easy as most businesses, merchants, and caravans were loyal to Grayditch for making caps over fist. Seagrave Holmes had been putting off a return to Rivet City for his new start up in Grayditch, Holmes Hardwar and Supplies. Truth was, Rivet City was pressuring him to return and he was stalling. It was as easy to find out information on Vala of Friendship Heights and Billy Creel of Megaton. Burke, on the other hand, was silent as a graveyard.

Vala had been working with the city engineers on a sewage and drainage system for her town. She was unable to read or write, but pictures meant a lot more to her and her people. The blocked utilities tunnels and metro system limited their ability to tap into the pre – war sewage lines. Creel was looking more into the well-being of his adopted daughter Maggie. Moriarty still had her under his watch, along with Creel's caravan business that Maggie gallantly upheld. Burke seemed to not pass messages back to Tenpenny Tower, or if he did it was out of Fleet's reach.

"So he's been completely unattached on the whole treaty," confirmed Jameson as she read over the notes, slightly shocked by the focus on a water backed cap economy similar to the New California Republic out west.

"Mister Burke prefers his whiskey served chilled, his room heated, and his couriers must be from Tenpenny directly as I can't track them," confirmed the Mayor of Grayditch. He had kept a close eye on the special representation from Tenpenny Tower. "The man has taken no whores. He's made no friends. I haven't even seen him write a word. He is an absolute dead end."

"And these figures for the combined cap wealth of Tenpenny Tower is accurate," the amount was astonishing to the Head Scribe. Even by concepts of monetary wealth from the west coast, Allistair Tenpenny would be considered the richest person on both coasts.

"My economic advisors," the term felt foreign in his mouth, but Fleet had men and women working on small parts of this larger project, "tell me that is an underestimation. Apparently Allister Tenpenny didn't originally land in the Potomac, though no one is saying where he first stepped of that floating log that carried him across the ocean."

"Interesting, though I'd highly doubt there is this much capital at his disposal," dismissed the Head Scribe.

"It's not the tower's wealth, it's all one man's, Allistair Tenpenny," rejoined Fleet as he held up his one finger, "there are very few places that can generate that many assets, let alone keep it in reserve."

"I can think of several," offered Jameson, the only viable option was Canterbury Commons in her mind. Paradise Falls would an option, though not one the Brotherhood of Steel could approve.

"This comes to why I wrote, Scribe Jameson," Fleet noted that Jameson hadn't said 'not Paradise Falls' but assumed that was how she felt, "which is the support of the Brotherhood of Steel."

"I thought Grayditch was an independent city," the comment came out harsher then Fleet expected. He held his tongue remembering that this woman had sacrificed a member of her organization for his city. "Mayor Fleet, what would be the plans for the inclusion of the Brotherhood of Steel?"

"Well, as the protectors and providers of Aqua Pura, you would be very important to our agreement," Henry affirmed as Elizabeth raised her hand.

"Mayor Fleet, we are an organization. We are not a settlement, nor do we look to be one or an independent city or a state," Jameson was referencing the State of Maxson in the NCR and how it inevitably lead to the NCR – Brotherhood of Steel Civil War.

"What do you have in mind, Elizabeth," asked Henry as he spun his glass in a circle.

"I believe the Elders would prefer us to remain in our current position of protecting those vital interests of the settlements." She knew the minds of both Rothchild and Lyons, and this was a conversation they needed to be privy to, "I of course will need to talk with my Elders, but this would be a document putting our current mission here in written words, versus the vocal commentary of Three Dog."

"So fighting the good fight," smiled Fleet at the naïve drabbles of the propaganda hound, "if you can agree on a language I'll make sure to present it well to all those involved."

"That doesn't solve the issues of these current talks," reminded Jameson.

"It will add new life to the talks," said Fleet.

"There is something else at play," voiced Jameson as she looked over Fleet's shoulder, "Burke will want to kill the talks completely."

"So what are you saying I should do to keep these talks going," a perplexed look on his face as he knew he couldn't stop Burke's plan.

"Kill the talks on your own terms," suggested Elizabeth with a shrug, "for some waffling reason, but mainly do it to take the power away from Tenpenny Tower. Rally the others to exert pressure on Burke and the Talks will start again. Or you can find a settlement to replace them and exclude Tenpenny from future talks."

Operative Colin Moriarty Junior entered his biological father's apartment office above his saloon. He and Zimm still operated out of Silver's Den, much to the ire of his father. Silver had taken a protection deal with Ashkelon for help outside of the whore house. The raider prison warden had successfully taken control or exerted influence on the major businesses of Springvale. J.R. and Zimm played both Moriarty Senior and Ashkelon against each other by funneling useless information. The whores in Silver's employ were good at collecting information from their clients. The Brotherhood of Steel Operatives paid for this information by protecting the girls inside the whore house.

Moriarty Senior called a meeting with his son to find out more information, or so J.R. thought. His father sat at his desk and tossed a piece of paper. JR, without a word, picked up the paper to see the short note scratched on to the course paper.

Five Settlement Talks have hit a large snag. Mister Burke has refused to come back to the talks. When asked approached him with your note, he walked away without a word. Advise on how to continue, please do not harm Maggie.

Billy

"What are these five settlement talks?" These were the first words out of JR's mouth as he continued to go over the letter in his head as he handed it back to his father.

"We, Megaton, are in talks with four other settlements on concerns for trade," informed Moriarty Senior as if nothing had been occurring. He turned his son's attention back to the letter, "but there is a major issue with Mister Burke. I need you to go to Tenpenny Tower and talk with the old man."

"Are you asking me as your son or ordering me as your employee," JR's tone was stone cold, knowing it didn't matter either way: he would go.

"Both, what's good for Megaton and me is good for you, as well, lad." Moriarty's answer was delivered with patience. "Find out why this is happening, lad, put Tenpenny to the bricks. I'm sending you as my representative, which will give you some protection, though not much. It will allow you through the front gate, but if you cause trouble at the Tower, anything can happen. Be careful, lad."

JR was taken aback by his father's warning but understood the risks. He left the office and returned to Silver's Den. Zimm was sitting at the table and watching the crowd, paper for notes in front of him as well as a glass of whiskey. JR rapt his knuckles on the table getting the attention of his partner in the Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services.

"I'll be taking a trip out to Tenpenny Tower," informed the Operative to his partner.

"Do you need back up," Zimm knew that Tenpenny and Burke were persons' of interest for BIOS. Being able to get eyes on them in their home settlement would be major.

"Solo mission, stay here and protect the girls," confirmed JR as he looked around the whore house. "Any news?"

"A few," confessed Zachary as he turned over a scrawled piece of paper, "that kid was looking for you, again."

JR raised an eyebrow and continued to look around the whore house as if expecting a fight to break out or members of the Enclave to storm in, "Susie's cousin," he asked and Zachary nodded. JR sighed and shook his head. "How is your investigation into Ultrajet?"

"There has been some talk around the watering hole," confirmed Zimm in reference to the Ghoul restaurant owned by Wint. "Have not pinned down the supplier or creator, but it has started to pop up in Springvale."

"Leo's been sniffing around town," JR knew the man would get himself in trouble, sooner rather than later.

"Not as much as his supplier, Susa," answered Zimm, "the man is like a mad brahmin."

"Raiders are not ones for secrecy," agreed JR as he turned to go to his room, "If I'm not back in a month…you know what to do."

"Yea, I know what to do," was all Zimm replied in a nod.

The waves of the Chesapeake Bay made the _Majesty_ rock and sway. Operative Daniel Roe had not gained his sea legs yet as he stumbled above deck. Da'an, Zhao, and Bin seemed the most comfortable of the ghouls with traveling by boat. Franklin and Tamara had similar lack of equilibrium to Roe, but no one had it as worse than Rook. He was hunched over the railing on the starboard side as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the bay. The other sailors were laughing and making jokes about the former NFL linebacker.

The main sail was full of wind and they were only half way through their fortnight sojourn. The ghouls were being used for scrubbing the deck and managing the rigging, following orders from the sailors and the first mate. Tarek ibn Khalid had been very helpful. Roe and his team were learning a lot about sailing. Khalid and Greene, with their combined knowledge, knew more about the waterways of the Chesapeake than anyone in the Brotherhood of Steel. Travel plans were simple as resupply at Point Lookout was common to all mariners these days.

From Point Lookout, where they planned to have a week shore leave to collect items and stretch their legs, they would cut across the Bay and ride the coast. Waterways around Norfolk had been out of bounds for over a generation, the Brotherhood of Steel projected it was from when the Enclave had relocated to the east coast from the west. Fishermen and sailors from the Eastern Shore called the place Neptune's Fork for a twofold reason; one being that all ships that crossed into those waters were destroyed or lost. The second reason because it was a bastardized version of Norfolk having grown from the pidgin title "n'fork".

Roe's mission would take them into the heart of Neptune's Fork, an opportunity he was told an old sea dog wouldn't turn down. Captain Greene talked about the adventure and treasure as if it were a tale of old already. Greene was old enough to remember the communities that existed behind the Fork and how their markets must have been closed all this time. Spices from the Eastern Shore, punga fruits from Point Lookout, and technology from the Capital would be how the old sea dog made his money. Captain Greene admitted his plan to open all those markets, by force or stealth if need be, and never return to selling pre-war knick knacks.

The upcoming journey to Neptune's Fork was shared in private conversations between Operative Daniel Roe, Captain Greene, and the first mate Tarek ibn Khalid. The talk amongst the sailors and Roe's ghouls were more to tall tales from the sea. In the galley of the _Majesty_, six people could share a meal at one time. Sailors and mercenaries would eat in shifts and work the rigging so that the galley was not over crowded. Captain Greene was topside as Tarek ibn Khalid, Franklin, bin and two other sailors were in the galley with Daniel Roe.

"An' then Cap'n Greene rammed the side of these Eastern Shore bastards," one of the sailors recounted a heroic action against piracy by the old sea dog. His words against the Eastern Shore didn't hurt Tarek ibn Khalid despite Roe knowing the man originated from that region. Wine was in the glass of the sailor as he sloshed it on the table and himself, "we boarded them quickly, stole their cargo and left them without any way to make caps. An' guess what their cargo was, cumin and thyme! All that for a few hundred pounds of spices."

"Good Ol' Cap'n Greene," remarked the other sailor, "givers everything our all, no mattah the gain."

"Have you heard much of the place we plan to travel to," asked Roe, his question directed to Tarek.

"No, no one has traveled there and lived for the last twenty years," responded the first mate as he ripped a piece of bird apart and ate its cooked sinew. Sailor diets were more varied than that of common wastelanders because they ate preserved foods and what was caught on the Bay. In this particular case, a bird had flown into the sails and now resided in Tarek ibn Khalid's stomach. "I heard stories of large clans and towns there, but that was all from before my time. Since then, sea monsters haunt the waters. It is only a narrow straight that the Atlantic coast of the Eastern Shore can sail around the Kipto Cape into the Bay."

"What are these rumors," probed Franklin as he sipped at his own drink. The black face cloth gone as most of the crew knew they were ghouls. Even Bin was not wearing his face mask.

"Neptune's Fork used to be a safe area to sail before the black demons arrived," informed Tarek as the other sailors nodded away. "They say the black demons take you to hell in green fire."

"Aye, that they do," agreed the sailor from the original tale. He had a bald skullcap with a scraggily mullet of thin oily hair, "seen it with me own two eyeballs I tell yah. Me an' my ol' crew were out at Front Cove when those metal birds flew in with the black demons. Whole of the town went up with green flames! We made it to the ship and out of the cove just as the sea monster came in. It was a Leviathan, the largest beast I've ever seen! Even larger than a madracore!"

"You've seen a madracore," the other sailor dismissed the tale by his fellow sailor and leaned forward against the table. "Coxie tends to make up stories."

"Shut yeh lying gob, Piltz," Coxie pushed the sailor claiming him to be exaggerating. He huffed and leaned back in his chair. "I too have seen a madracore! It's what ended the crew on the _Rustbucket_. Damn thing broke through the hull and killed nearly thirty men! I, being the smart one, abandoned ship with a few other mates. Had to cling onto the wreckage and float for nearly three days until the _Al-Rash _picked up me and those mates left alive from the _Rustbucket_."

"Good sailors on the _Al-Rash_," commented Tarek as he nodded to Coxie, "but Neptune's Fork holds more dangers than the black deomons, green flames of hell, and madracores. The monsters there are known to sink all ships, even those civilian vessels too."

"These black demons, what do they look like," enquired Roe. The talk of green flames reminded him of plasma based weapons. The large flying birds were clearly vertibirds. The Enclave was not seen in the Capital Wasteland until the war with the Brotherhood of Steel and their invasion of Project Purity. Their appearance at Norfolk, or Neptune's Fork as the locals called it, would have been a reality jarring experience. _It was no wonder that locals explained away the happenings as colloquially as they do_, thought the Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

"They tower at nine feet tall, their bodies covered in large black scales harder than the rocks of Saxis," claimed Coxie as Piltz groaned at the seaman's embellishment. "They talk to each other through their minds and when they talk to mere mortals their voice is booming and cold; it chills you to your every bones."

Bin said something in mandarin and Franklin translated, "what my fair weathered friend was saying is that he was surprised you could be able to watch these black demons when sailing away."

Piltz burst out laughing and slapped the table, "for a ghoul, you sure as shit are funny!"

Coxie told Piltz and Bin to stuff it. Tarek laughed and enjoyed his bird. There was an uncomfortable feeling as they all knew Neptune's Fork was dangerous to them because it was unknown. On maps made by cartographers of the Eastern Shore the area was hazy and read: Here be monsters. Daniel Roe leaned over to whisper in the remains of Franklin's ear.

"Does that sound like the Enclave to you," his question rhetorical as they both knew it was a true statement and Franklin grunted.

The Community of Dickerson, if one could call it that, was made out of a dilapidated chapel. The remains of several shacks could be seen around the chapel as Operative Juan Alvarado and Regulators Brittany Ward and Oscar approached main building. The shacks had been destroyed recently, probably in the super mutant attack against Sentinel Julian Tristan's Centurions. Burnt earth still remained, little recovery had occurred since the super mutant attack. Dickerson, as a community, was still hurting.

The Regulators walked slowly up to the chapel, there were only a few people outside helping to close up some holes in the chapel. One wastelander even swept the entrance way. Out of the bell tower there was a whistle and those outside rushed into the relative safety of the chapel. Brit walked forward with her hands in the air and her palms facing out. Oscar mimicked her motions while Juan tried to, but could only do so with one hand. Sitting on the ledge of the chapel window with one leg out and pressed to the belfry wall was a black man in green combat armor. He had a sniper rifle and what looked like a hood made out of an olive burlap sack.

Brit looked up to the man, she could see the unhealed sores on his as a mark of malnutrition, "we've been told you need help, we're Regulators."

"Hope you don't mind if I don't take you at your word," replied the man in the belfry, "specially that one with only one hand up."

"Don't mind him, simply a crippled porter," countered Brit as Juan scowled, "you can tell us the issue this way or you can let us help properly. We just want to help."

"Regulators don't work for free," said the man as he spat out from his spot in the belfry and the spit landed a few feet from Ward, "we ain't got much caps, 'ere."

"Regulator Leader Cruz has footed the costs upon a signed bill of services from the community of Dickerson," assuaged Brit as she blew out some of her platinum blonde hair from her face, "mind if me and my people put our hands down, they're getting tired."

The protector in the belfry nodded before whistling three times in quick succession. Two men in green rags came out and asked for their weapons. Brit and Oscar grudgingly handed them over to these men. Alvarado was only too happy to hand over the pack and weapon. Unfortunately, the men only wanted the weapons and Juan was forced to carry the supply pack yet again. They were escorted into the chapel to see several people living together in a small space that still had a completely open roof.

Several mothers hushed their children and moved them into a sectioned off part that gave some protection to the elements. The man from the belfry slid down a ladder and approached the three Regulators. He offered them no hand to shake, clearly distrusting them still. Brittany Ward and Oscar did not take offense to this sign of disrespect. Alvarado curiously wondered on their nonjudgmental attitude.

"While in the main chapel you can't carry weapons," he explained as he collected the arms in a tied blanket from the two men in rags, "what else are you looking for, Regulators?"

"Tell us more about what happened," said Oscar as his eyes kept searching the building. He didn't mention the disappearances but knew that was the recent tragedy to befall this community.

"Several of our people were taken late one night," explained the hooded malnourished man.

"How do you know they didn't just up and leave," inquired Brit, the tone of her voice was more probing than accusatory.

"The Picards and the Flemming family had shacks set up around the temples," informed the hooded sniper from the belfry as he brushed a sore on his face, smearing the puss on his cheek. "Check their shacks, or what remains of them. Most people in our community tell why or when they leave. The Picards and the Flemmings didn't, so it's a bit suspicious. Several of the families around know them better, feel free to ask them."

"We'll question them in a bit, but just a few more questions if you'd please," Brit's request held the weight of an order that could only be construed poorly if denied. "What dangers are here? We've heard word of super mutants and slavers."

"There were super mutants, but the Brotherhood pushed them back down south. For a bit anyways," the mention of the Brotherhood of Steel put a glower on the sniper's face. "Slavers still comb these parts, in fact most think they're to blame on the disappearance of the Picards and Flemmings. We've had some trouble back when with feral ghouls, and the occasional wasteland critter."

"Any more Brotherhood activity in the area," Juan raised an eyebrow to Brit's question.

"Which one," the question seemed loaded to Brit, Juan, and Oscar based on the sniper's tone.

"Tell me the difference," Brit wanted the information, though Juan suspected the material would not show his past organization in good light.

"Well, the red devils pass by often but we don't pay them no mind and they pay us no attention at all," the sniper rubbed his neck though the hood and the Regulators knew he was opening sores. "Then there are those Centurions camped out in the north. Their leader, called Tristan, has taken to wearing a yao guai fur clasped around his shoulders. Fucking bastard claims it as an honor for defending the north. We lost ten people and fifty have gone missing in the defense of our community from the mutties. Tristan calls it a success, but does this look like a fucking a success to you?"

"No, it doesn't. How many other families remain," Brit's question was more on the community's vulnerability and viability. Word of Sentinel Tristan's Centurions tactics had reached the Citadel, but most Brotherhood of Steel members knew the terrain in the north to be completely untamed or civilized. As long as it was far removed from the Citadel, the Brotherhood would pay him and the Centurions no mind. Operative Juan Alvarado was the first member of the Brotherhood of Steel, besides the Centurions, to see the destruction in the wake of Sentinel Julian Tristan's pragmatic military doctrine.

"Only fifteen are left another twenty-five people left after the Brotherhood's defense," the watchman of Dickerson talked as if everyone in the community were dying a slow death.

"We'll get the Picards and Flemmings back," she checked herself on her promise, "or find out what happened to them."

"Feel free to ask around," the sniper nodded, "your weapons will be with me until you decide to leave."

Brit turned to Juan, "now you have the most important task for us, Froshie. Guard the supplies and make certain no one steal them. Can you handle that?"

Alvarado grumbled and agreed. Brittany Ward and Oscar walked amongst the settlers of Dickerson as Juan squatted against one of the remaining walls with the pack on his back. The sniper kept an eye on him as the time passed. Breaking the silence, as the Regulators were still away, the sniper of Dickerson decided to make small talk.

"What's it like being a Regulator," he asked, spitting on the ground again.

"Wouldn't know, I'm only a probationary member," Alvarado offered, not looking at the man.

"Who were you with before them," the small talk annoyed Juan.

The young Hispanic nineteen year old Operative flashed his best smile as he said, "the Brotherhood of Steel." The sniper turned away because of the awkward moment that had descended on their small talk. Brit and Oscar returned after nearly an hour of uncomfortable stillness between Juan and the sniper. The Regulators looked as the sniper and then to Juan, questioning this unusual tension.

"Froshie, we're going to check out the shacks now," Oscar's words meant Juan was to join them and he was to get off his ass. The black Regulator turned to the sniper of Dickerson, "we'll be back as soon as we can."

The Regulators, including Operative Alvarado, left the chapel after retaining their weapons to visit the destroyed shacks outside. Brittany and Oscar found some dried blood and fragments of clothing, but little else. Weather had eliminated the majority of any evidence. Juan could see that Brit was thinking along with Oscar as they walked the ruins. She turned to both of them.

"We'll head to Roosevelt Academy first," she stated and chewed the inside of her cheek, "there is little left behind, but what is here gives me a gut feeling that super mutants are involved."

Juan looked to Oscar, who nodded along with Brit's sentiment. "What if it's not super mutants," asked Alvarado as he saw no evidence pointing to the super mutant threat. Surely, had the creatures taken the Picards and Flemmings, than the residents of Dickerson would have heard them moving about. "It could be slavers, raiders, or god knows what!"

"Listen, Froshie, if you want to be a Regulator some time this decade you'll need to learn," educated Oscar with a glare that would have frozen a charging yao guai in its tracks. "Instinct is very important for us. We follow Brit's intuition right now. If the mutties don't had these people we'll go onto the usual suspects. You are here to observe and learn, stop arguing with us and maybe you will learn something."

The National Security Agency stood as a mausoleum to the old United States of America. Its keeper was a man inflicted by a disease that increased his longevity while claiming all that made him physically human. Two men from a new order that rose out of nuclear hellfire and turbulent sands of the wasteland had been his companions for more than two weeks. Operative Quintus Schieber and Knight Jamie Bors only had a taste of what Fredrick Niche's last two hundred years had been. This taste was not a good one in their mouths and they knew now they did not belong there, at the old NSA headquarters.

The two Brotherhood of Steel members sat Niche down in the main terminal room they had first met in face – to – face. It was here they were going to talk about their plans. Schieber and Bors had been conspiring together on their next course of action as death did not seem to be definitely in their future as it had been when they first crashed. Fredrick straightened his bowtie as he looked upon the two men in T45d power armor, an antiquated form of the US Armed Forces personal armor. The last two weeks had crushed many of the realities he had come to think to be true.

"We want to thank you for your hospitality Fredrick, we really appreciate it," the Operative born in Drayden said before he paused briefly, "but we need to get back to the Citadel and the Brotherhood of Steel."

Niche nodded in agreement as Bors looked over to the ghoul and the ancient terminals, "Fredrick, we have a robot in the entrance hall that has been on a holding position for these last two weeks. It has the ability to boost a radio signal on a transmitter or tower and signal our home base. We don't know if it will work with the systems you have down here, but will you allow us to use everything you have here so we can contact home."

"I…I can't agree to that without seeing the machine first, or knowing how it will connect to the system. It took me more than fifty years to learn all the systems here, and even then some weren't on or working! Besides, a fair amount of our systems are wired underground," Niche knew he shouldn't allow it. Even if several of the systems weren't working, the saved information on them could be rescued or reconstituted. _But what is the point of protecting all the NSA had to offer if the United States didn't exist_, thought the ghoul.

"Another idea we've been tossing around is that you might want to join our group," Bors put the idea out there, pushing his own dislike for ghouls down to the bottom of his heart. Schieber and Bors had discussed the issue and thought the old cryptologist would be an amazing addition to the Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services. Niche smiled faintly before frowning and becoming nervous. The ghoul's voice sounded as if he was gargling gravel.

"I'll have to think about it," Fredrick held in his thoughts, his old age letting him know the importance of not speaking your mind.

However, Quin Schieber still suffered from youthful impatience and quick decision making. "This will be a great opportunity, Fred," his thoughts sound in his mind as he ignored Bors' quieting looks, "you have so much to teach us from the past, you know this facility better than anyone alive, and now you can have a life outside of this cold underground complex."

"Is that what this is all about," Niche's two index fingers moved back and forth between the power armored men and himself. The ghoul raised an eyebrow, or more accurately the thin wisps of hair that remained of his eyebrows. Ne began to stand up, his limbs shaking in unpronounced anger and frustration that Bors could read in his dull eyes.

"Fredrick, don't you want to see the sun again," asked the Knight in a calming voice as he held his hands out with his palms facing to the ghoul. "This place has been a large burden on your shoulders. We want to help with that burden, to lessen that load."

"Why should I believe you," asked the ghoul as he was caught between sitting and standing, his legs bent slightly.

"Fredrick, we haven't lied to you once this whole time we've been here," said Bors as he sat down against a desk, "the truth is that I dislike ghouls, just the way I've been raised, but you are the first once I've ever spent some time with and I've come to respect you."

"I wouldn't name myself as a good representation of this ghoul community you have informed me of these last few days. I've been sheltered here," admitted Niche as he sat down in the chair again, his knees shaking. "Let's…let's see if we can get you home, Jamie, Quin."

"You'll be able to go home too, Freddie," said Schieber as he snapped on his helmet, ready to go up the elevator to get Trip.

"I …I haven't been home in…." Niche began to have a flashback to the historic apartment he and his wife, Estelle, owned in Baltimore. "It's been a long time, I doubt it is even there, anymore," _but who knows, the Lord has worked in many mysterious ways_, he thought.

Scribe Janice Yearling hardly ever went into the field herself. Her job was to handle logistics and create plans for the Operatives and Brotherhood of Steel. It was not her job to go into the field and work as an operative. Thus, she found herself standing in the offices of Doctor Gordon Hopikns in Grayditch as uncomfortable. She stood watching the doctor put files on a shelf and took other folders down. Yearling's robes swayed as she kept her feet together, standing still.

"Yes, okay, how may I help you, Scribe… I'm sorry, have we met before," asked Hopkins as he brushed his palms down the front of his white lab coat.

"Scribe will do just fine, Doctor Hopkins," answered Yearling with a false smile she thought was a good enough lie. She had made certain to close the door behind her as she came in and not reveal too much information about herself. "Actually, I have a few questions to ask…."

"Ah, yes, about your Elder, no doubt?" Hopkins steamed ahead as he searched for a file as Yearling placed a hand on his shoulder. "You aren't here about that, are you?"

"No, I am not here to find out more about Elder Lyons." Yearling waved her free palm to the open chair in front of the desk as an invitation to sit down. She brushed her sandy blond hair behind her right ear and crossed her right leg over her left thigh after she sat down in a different chair. Janice waited a little while in silence as the doctor sat down. "I am here, Doctor Hopkins, to talk with you and you may have already guessed why."

"No, I do not," lied Gordon, only a few people in the Brotherhood of Steel knew he was ex-Enclave. For this scribe to know his former affiliation one person must have loose lips or she was more senior in the Brotherhood than she let on to be.

"Gordon, can I call you Gordon," Janice did not wait for Hopkins' approval and plowed ahead. "Gordon, I wanted to detain you and all your former Enclave buddies living in the Capital Wasteland. How is it you could live amongst the people you terrorized for so long? I've always wondered how that would feel, to mix in with the people you thought were lowly, mutated, trash. However, Lyons has a soft spot for you and the doctor in the Vault hundred and one, so he won't allow me to take you both in. Consider this as me at my most civil, Gordon.

"Now that has been established, I have a few questions for you," Yearling had a cocky smile on her face. She had noted her words had made the doctor uncomfortable. "You can choose not to answer them…but really, do we want to go down that road, Gordon. I don't think so because, frankly, you are a good doctor and the wasteland needs good doctors. Now, I wouldn't lie to me either because after you and I talk, I have plans for someone to question your former colleague in Vault hundred and one. And again, we need good doctors in the wasteland."

"You threaten me and expect me to cooperate," Doctor Hopkins huffed in indignation.

"I do not threaten, Gordon, I make promises I can keep." Janice's lazy look added more to her intended look of intimidation than she could gage. "I want to know about the Enclave in the Capital Wasteland."

"You already know about the Enclave in the Capitol Region," his language influenced by the secret American organization. Gordon Hopkins' eyes looked up and to the left before returning to Yearling's gaze. He gulped audibly, "the Lone Wanderer destroyed the Raven Rock facility and the Brotherhood of Steel took over Adams Air Force Base. That pretty much was the death knell for the Enclave."

"Do you keep contact with any members of the Enclave," Janice knew he would have to work Hopkins into her answers. The man was not a pushover by nature.

"You know I do," said Hopkins as he referred to Doctor Peter Williams Cushing, "what kind of question is that?"

"You tell me, Gordon, you said the Enclave was 'pretty much' out of the Capital Wasteland. That doesn't mean the entire Enclave," Yearling knew she was discussing semantics, but it could be used as a wedge into his strong defenses. "Now you tell me you have contacts with 'active' Enclave agents. Is this to mean that Cushing is still a member of the Enclave or that there is a secret fifth column somewhere in the wasteland?"

"Fifth column? Active Enclave agents? Honestly, Scribe, I am just a doctor, not a soldier or an ideologue. I just mend broken people," Hopkins was clearly nervous.

"Several of our scouts found research posts left by the Enclave. Abandoned, of course, but you don't need me to tell you what went on out there, do you?" The ashen face of Doctor Gordon Hopkins answered the Scribe's question. A smug look on her face flickered into existence but Yearling suppressed it quickly. She leaned back more into the chair, "as lead surgeon, I bet you knew exactly what your group was doing. Now let's try some truth, Gordon."

"What do you want me to tell you," Gordon had the face of a broken man. He knew the atrocities his colleague and organization had committed were brutal. Gordon Hopkins had participated in the atrocities as well, trying hard to reconcile the work at the time as a different species from a common un-irradiated ancestor. The more he worked the more he saw the difference was cultural and not scientific, plainly speaking no difference existed. Cognitive dissonance didn't work for this particular Enclave Doctor.

"I want the truth, Gordon, on all my questions," Scribe Janice Yearling could smell the stench of defeat on Doctor Gordon Hopkins. "Now, are you an active Enclave agent?"

"No," answered Hopkins firmly.

"Do you know and communicate with active Enclave agents in the Capital Wasteland," Janice stared into his eyes.

"Yes," replied Hopkins as he thought, _regrettably_.

"Will you be willing to share those names and locations to me," Janice was intrigued, her best guess on Enclave fragments remaining behind seemed true.

"It is up to them to come forward, I will not betray any former colleagues," _if I can agree with his action_, thought Janice as she listened to his words and appraised the Enclave Doctor, _I can respect his integrity_.

"Do you have family in Norfolk, in the former state of Virginia?" Yearling knew the question was loaded, but Hopkins' answer would provide some clue as to what awaited the Brotherhood of Steel coming from the south.

"The reason I am here is because I have no family," the pain in Hopkins' eyes was throbbing at the base of the orbs, "and I am the last of my family line."

"So why spend it amongst the people you tormented and not those of your own group in Norfolk," any answer would confirm that the Enclave did hold Norfolk.

"Redemption," there was a laugh in his voice. Hopkins was cynical as if knew he could never be awarded what he truly wished.

"Tell me about Norfolk," asked Yearling as she licked her dry lips.

"I think I've said all I wanted to say, Scribe," Hopkins did not like these mind games. _There is little else she could hold against me,_ thought the Enclave doctor as he crossed his arms to his chest.

"You will tell me or the Brotherhood will look into relocating you, Gordon," her smile was sick and she no longer hid her smug attitude, "and after the town of Grayditch finds out about your past, I doubt you'd want to remain here."


	5. Faith

I do not own Fallout, the Fallout universe, nor do I own any rights to trademarked and copyrighted material. I derive no profit from this work of fanatical fiction.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 5.) Faith

The Citadel stood fortified and strong as it had been for over twenty years. Flapping in the wind on the central flagpole was the standard of the Brotherhood of Steel. Knights guarded the outside of the fortress along with robotic sentries and snipers on several catwalks. Inroads into the ruins of the D.C. Metro area had proved successful since the creation of Fort Early Dawn as a staging ground. Necessary supplies for the outfits and squads fighting the super mutant menace in the D.C. Ruins meant the troops were able to rotate shifts better and restock before going out in the field. Elders Lyons and Rothchild were able to see the beginnings of growth from their labor after having being beaten back many times.

Head Scribe Elizabeth Jameson had offered the Elders few details in the courier she sent before she returned to the Citadel. Her courier, a local trader she hired in Grayditch, told them the verbal message calling for an emergency meeting. Scribe Georgina Mendel was barred from this meeting, on special request from the Head Scribe. Gears were turning in Lyons' brain as he went over the fact that Jameson held a clandestine meeting in Grayditch and the disparaging report from Rothchild on the state of affairs with the Commonwealth.

Ambassador George Schultz had enraged Owyn Lyons, the concept of going under the umbrella of the Commonwealth was an insult. Individual Kingdoms, fiefdoms, and ennobled landholders wanted the former District of Columbia because it was the capital city of a great empire. Despite all the fabled splendor of New Cambridge, the Commonwealth lacked history because the majority of their cities had been destroyed. Knowledge of these feelings from their invited quests led to a reinforcement of guards. If the encampment had only been protected before as the Brotherhood of Steel claimed, than it was now under complete lockdown. Leaflets were quickly dropped in the encampment via vertibird to inform on the new rules due to 'increased threats to safety and security.' More leaflets were being printed on a small printing press held in the bowels of the Citadel after being recovered from the basement of Fort Early Dawn.

Jameson passed her notes on the Five Settlement Talks to the Elders of the Brotherhood of Steel. It took nearly forty – five minutes for them both to half read and skim the hundred twenty pages. Head Scribe Jameson waited patiently. She had written down her best opinion for the future of the organization in the agreement. Elder Lyons had a shallow smile on his wizened face while Rothchild grimaced at the last page dealing with Elizabeth's opinion.

"They have been in correspondence for a while it seems," commented Lyons. The implication being that there were no reports from Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services on the matter. In fact, there seemed to be a complete gap between information gathering and operations, _an issue I'll have to address_, thought Lyons.

"Indeed, it is difficult to track messages as letters are sent with traveling merchants and couriers." Elizabeth would like to see more of a regulated service for parcel delivery, especially under the watchful eyes of the Brotherhood of Steel. However, there was no way they could man that type of operation. In fact, the issue of communication within the Brotherhood of Steel was assisted by Enclave radio and information technology.

"It was wise to turn down Fleet's original idea, though I think suspending the talks would be a detriment to the system," Rothchild was critical but still appreciated all Elizabeth did base on instinct and a well-informed mind.

"The mistakes of the west coast cannot be made again," _those that refused to learn from history were doomed to repeat it_, thought Jameson. "What talking points should I return to Mayor Fleet with, as we determine the issue with Tenpenny Tower."

"What do you mean 'we'," inquired Rothchild as his left eye squinted a little at the Head Scribe.

"I know that Grayditch will be looking into this and thus I have written a service request for Scribe Yearling and BIOS to have a man of theirs infiltrate Tenpenny Tower to gain inside information," Elizabeth paused, she knew that to get an operative into Tenpenny Tower would cost a hundred caps. To have them buy an apartment would be more than the currently had as an organization.

"That would be an effective use of Bael and Yearling's team," admitted Lyons as he tapped the file. Fleet was attempting to unify several settlements of the Capital Wasteland, and ambitious task for a man only in office for a single year. Owyn was a little upset that it was not him or the Brotherhood of Steel leading the way on unification. Alas, he resigned himself; the Brotherhood could not grow too far its roots. They were to collect and gather the knowledge and technology of the Old World to prevent the new one from it falling into the wrong hands_. Protectors of their adopted homeland_, the Elder's words were firm yet remorseful, "we are not a government, nor could we be one in the future."

"Many consider us a military, properly trained and educated as such, especially those with long memories or from the Vaults," Rothchild commented, having read the reports from J.R. on Vault 101.

"The Kingdom of Brandia serves as the standing army for the Commonwealth," offered Jameson as she compared notes on the existing governments they had encountered as an organization. "The New California Republic disbanded local militias in the incorporated states, except for Maxson, to create a federalized standing army."

"We are and have been the standing army of the Capital Wasteland for twenty years," Rothchild's comment was galvanized as silence followed for several seconds.

"Yet we are not the only armed force of the Wasteland," Jameson didn't need notes to rattle off the names of all the factions that took up arms, small paramilitary leftovers of the Great War, and those that carried out wasteland justice from the Family to the Regulators. There was a medium sized file in her office that chronicled the history of wasteland groups, a file that grew daily because of the members of BIOS. "But my thoughts are to put the weight and power of all military action and response for these settlements as our priority will once, and for all, entitles us as the sole military force in the Capital Wasteland."

"The militias of each community have played an integral role to these people for over two hundred years. We cannot sweep them away in one drastic move, that would be the death of the treaty," Owyn Lyon comment held the weight of wisdom and pragmatism. Jameson could see she was looking down the line of twenty years at a time, whereas he was looking to the present and leaving the future open for possibilities.

Elizabeth knew not to argue with Owyn Lyons, "I won't present any ideas until you two have made an official decision. I would like to be on point with these talks as I was asked directly by Mayor Henry Fleet."

"You are by far too important as Head Scribe to work on this alone," Rothchild said after a few moments of contemplation. "There are several names on the short list of who we are looking at to be the new Proctor to the Order of the Quill. Perhaps this will be a good time to evaluate who is to replace you."

Jameson nodded. She had already seen the list. It had been on her terminal for over a week. As Head Scribe, she had the honor of deciding her replacement as the Proctor for the Order of the Quills. "Sirs, we still need to discuss the implication of the water backed economy."

"The water backed economy that we'd have complete control over, you mean," Rothchild was ever so good at adding the words to complete Jameson's statement. In his head wheels were turning within wheels. He decided it would be best to leave those ideas away from others thoughts, "this is a choice of theirs, we shall see if it sticks."

"Elder Rothchild, I understand the implication of a cap economy backed by Aqua Pura. What I mean to say is that do we want Scribe Bigsley in charge of Project Purity if this decision was to be formalized," several of the scribes had written complaints on his conduct. He had been abusing chems and stimulants deemed inappropriate to the Brotherhood of Steel, along with verbal and physical abuse. In one particular case, the stressed out Scribe had thrown an ancient telephone and receiver at a fellow scribe and struck her. Apparently, these sentiments and situations were buried under Rothchild's administration as Head Scribe as he protected Bigsley. Assuming the role of Head Scribe also meant taking on her predecessor's history.

"Scribe Bigsley has been an asset for the Brotherhood of Steel in his role at Project Purity," Rothchild stated his support for the flawed individual. Bigsley's heavy reliance on chems and selling of Aqua Pura to run and maintain Project Purity had been reported many times. "The man has kept up with one of the hardest programs we have. Even the Scourge was easier than Project Purity."

"Surely there is another project that he can be assigned to in the meantime," nudge Jameson before she continued, "because if Fleet was to glean any information about Scribe Bigsley's conduct than Project Purity would be at risk of falling out of the Brotherhood's control."

"Elizabeth, you have all rights as Head Scribe to move your subordinates around," Lyons talked about her role as if informing a neophyte. He shook off his confusion with a senile smile. "However, there are more important issues with these talks of the settlements. Why are their only five?"

Unsettled and unsatisfied with the decision but reconciled to the fact that she had the power to change it despite the advice of the Elders; Head Scribe Elizabeth Jameson described the Five Settlement Talks in more detail. Rothchild's motives were unclear to her, _why would he support a scribe like Bigsley?_ Also, the effects of old age and a recent surgery clearly had caused some issues at meetings. More to the point, Jameson was realizing the politics of her position were more tenable than when she was a Proctor. Her promotion had proved to be more of a hassle than a benefit.

Operative Anna LaCroix, Scribe Actaeon, and Knight Captain Galeas walked through the wasteland. It was getting colder as the winds picked up and tossed dust and soil around. The gray and reddish soil clung to their clothes and armor. One day they came across a campsite that had two dead Regulators and one that was still holding on to life, by a thread. Knight Captain Galeas wanted to leave the injured man to the fate of the wasteland but LaCroix would not accept that decision.

Actaeon and Galeas thought it was a lost cause for LaCroix to take up. Vultures and other birds of prey had already descended up on the campsite when the Brotherhood of Steel operatives arrived. Corpses of the other Regulators had been torn open at the abdomen for the birds and critters to feast. One adventurous vulture had walked over to the living Regulator and ripped a large portion off the right side of his face. From the open ear wound to just under his eye socket and just under his jaw across to his mouth, including some of his upper and lower lips were removed. All the meat of his cheek, including the connective tissue between his lower and upper jaw down to the bone and teeth, filled the vulture's gullet. Anna, following several lessons with Elias back at the Alexandria, treated the Regulator's wounds with traditional Eastern Shore medicine. Wasteland grass matted with a paste made from sterile urine and a plant sap from desert brush was smeared all over his face and on his bullet wounds. Splints were wrapped to set the broken bones and immobilize him from doing more damage.

Their pace had slowed dramatically as they now carried the wounded Regulator with a stretcher made from old pipes and plastic netting. They had spent some time making a twin pair of graves for the dead Regulators, but without proper tools their resting spots were still shallow enough for the birds of prey to get to them. LaCroix dragged this Regulator on her own accord, pulling the stretching with the muscles in her back and legs. Night was quickly coming upon them as they saw smoke and the light amber glow of a fire a head of them. Galeas and Actaeon scouted the settled caravan to find it to be a merchant and his mercenary body guards.

Upon their return, the Brotherhood of Steel members had a hushed conversation, "we should avoid all human contact," warned Galeas, the wounded Regulator stirring in his fitful sleep.

"They may have supplies needed to help him survive," LaCroix reasoned, their stock of goods to trade with was really low and medicinal supplies in the wasteland were expensive.

"They could know a faster route to Canterbury Commons," Actaeon furrowed his eyebrows from under his maroon chaperon as Anna gained a pleading look in her face so that Galeas would agree. "Or they could take the Half-Face off our hands."

"Last time I checked, neither of you were lending a hand," LaCroix's words were hard and cold, "and don't call him Half-Face."

"He's your burden," answered Galeas as her face showed utter contempt to the Regulator.

Actaeon stood up and walked forward to the encampment. LaCroix and Galeas were staring daggers at each other before they knew what was happening. By the time they realized that, the Scribe was already with the merchant talking. The body guards had trained their weapons on him. His shotgun and sniper rifle strapped to his back, his bare palms raised out to show no ill intention.

"Make another move and I'll fill yah full of holes," a mercenary said as they both cocked the hammers back on their guns. Had they been truly hostile to outsiders than they would have fired first, yet they knew wanderers approached the caravan for trade as well.

"Good evening wanderers," greeted the Scribe, his tongue too formal for local dialect, "would you be up to sharing your fire with four other wanderers this evening?"

"Fire, sure, food, no," said the other mercenary gruffly. A man in a charcoal gray suit with an undone red tie nodded.

Actaeon waved over to LaCroix and Galeas to join them. Anna was left to drag the injured Regulator down to the encampment. Galeas held her weapon flush to her stomach, her finger on the trigger guard as she took in the sight of the two mercenaries, well dressed men, and a pack brahmin. Actaeon sat next to the fire as Galeas stood. She told them she'd take first watch, the mercenaries didn't complain as it allowed them to sleep. The man in the charcoal gray suit went to help Anna as she dragged the Regulator forward and into the light of the fire.

The man examined the Regulator, moving the wasteland grass and paste off his wounds. A grimace besmirched his face as he smelt the festering flesh on the right side of what remained of the face. Anna moved the Regulator closer to the fire for the merchant to get a better look at the man, clearly he had some medicinal education as LaCroix could summarize. Amber light showed the merchant to be bald by choice as light stubble was growing on his head and face. His glasses were askew from multiple self-repairs.

"How long has it been since he was attacked," the mercenaries around the Regulator moved away as the merchant continued his close eye investigation. Half-Faced men were not part of their contracts and they decided to remove themselves.

"We don't rightfully know," admitted LaCroix as she looked at the merchant, "came upon a Regulator campfire that had been attacked. He was the only one left alive, barely."

"He was shot twice, once in the arm and once in the leg," recited the merchant as he examined the wounds. With contempt, he started to remove the previous bandages and Traditional Eastern Shore medicine. "Who the fuck put this crap on him?"

"What the fuck do you think you are doing," LaCroix wasn't answering the rhetorical question, but she was upset that this man thought her medicinal work was shoddy.

The merchant sighed. Traditional tribal medicines and the stigma against pre-War healthcare were his biggest bane. He grabbed a few remedies and emergency kits from the pack brahmin and brought them over. A saddle bag full of 'proper' medicine for the injured Regulator included a saline wash which the merchant used to remove all of the paste and sap out of his wounds. "Traditional medicine of tribals does not work. Not like living matters, really, if you think about it. Let's see what the good doctor has in his magic bag, shall we?"

"Bold claims," scoffed LaCroix as she undid the splints for the doctor, "just who do you think you are to question time proven tonics?"

"Little Lady, the name is Doc Hoff," the merchant rolled his eyes behind his wire frame glasses as he continued to wash out the Regulator's wounds. In the saddle bags he removed some antiseptic distilled at Moriarty's Saloon. "I've been setting bones, cleaning gunshots, and stopping infections for over thirty years. If you hadn't run into me, this Regulator would certainly have died. At least now he has a chance, just like any of us out in the wasteland."

"You're the Doc Hoff of Canterbury Commons, right?" The Merchant Empire of Ernest Roe had made lots of caps and provided the largest amount of products through the land route of the Capital Wasteland. The good doctor just nodded and continued to clean the wounds of the Regulator, sighing as he took out a jar full of maggots, "and you think Traditional Eastern Shore medicine is dangerous?"

"The maggots will eat the dead tissues and clean the wound more. If I had antibiotics I would use them, but these are the next best thing. Efficient and fast, soon I will be able to stitch the wounds," Doc Hoff turned the man's face and frowned. He removed two bullets, separated the balls from the case, and poured the gun powder over his open wound. "This face wound on the other hand…it needs to be cauterized completely or it will fester more. You might want to hold him down."

As he said that he lowered a match and ignited the gun powder, a lower quality grade that burnt slower with some smoke. The Regulator opened his eyes as the glowing orange and red on his face died down to black ash and smoke. He would have screamed out but his open cheek lead right to his mouth and throat and he wound up coughing on his burning flesh and ash. His coughing was caught between a violent intake of breathe with a gurgle afterwards. A blacken obtuse trapezoid on the right side of his face appeared with the stark whiteness of his teeth and bone. The smell churned LaCroix's stomach. Doc Hoff stuck a needle into the Regulator's neck and pushed the plunger of the syringe down to administer a dose of med – x.

The here unto nameless Regulator slowly fluttered his eyelids as he went to sleep momentarily free of pain. Hoff put away his saddle bag, popping a pill into his mouth as he returned to the fire. Sitting down, he began to rummage through the worn and blooded duster to pull out some letters addressed to a third party to read to one 'Wesson Chambers' as the recipient was illiterate. The good doctor stretched out his legs as he sat down on a rolled out cloth.

"Seems the Regulator has a name," Doc Hoff mentioned as he took a cup of stew from his body guards and began to blow on the spoon before eating it. He looked up to see Anna LaCroix staring at him and he realized he had stopped mid comment to fill his belly. "So where are you and your friends heading?"

"We're heading to Canterbury Commons," answered LaCroix as she looked to Actaeon and Galeas, "what is the Regulator's name?"

"Well well, looks like we both have the same road travel and you might need some direction as you're on the wrong side of the Potomac," Doc Hoff's comments were just filler coming from the top of his mind as he chewed the tough bits of stew. He ignored the question about the Regulator's name. "Say, are you lot interested in making some spare caps?"

"Depends on the assignment and pay," butted in Actaeon, his hood still obscuring his face, "and if you think you can trust us."

"It is not every day ordinary wanderers save a Regulator's life," the Scribe now could see that Doc Hoff didn't see them as raiders, Talon Company, or any other cut throats. "Simply put, I want the added protection of more hired guns. You can hitch a ride with us until Canterbury Commons."

"Where else does your caravan have to travel," asked the Scribe as LaCroix read the blood stained letters to get the Regulator's name. Knight Captain Galeas came back into the camp to talk with the two professional mercenaries.

"The big stops are Fort Bannister, Paradise Falls, and we'll surely head out to Regulator HQ. I also have layovers at an old gas station and a gentle old lady's cottage, which pays me in the form of music and friendship." Dov Hoff leaned back and took in the stars shining down on them. "I'll pay you five hundred caps each. Sound fair?"

Actaeon looked to LaCroix, who nodded and Galeas who shook her head from her place amongst the mercenaries. "Yes, or until we get a better offer," the Scribe answered as Galeas and one of the mercenaries walked the patrol together.

"Good, we break camp at the crack of dawn," the good doctor said simply as he lay down completely to fall asleep.

Actaeon whispered into LaCroix's ear, "now Half – Face can be taken care of by a medical expert. We can make some caps and get to Canterbury Commons."

Anna growled, "his name is Wesson Chambers," she said as she turned away from the smug Scribe to look at the good doctor's chest moving up and down rhythmically helping to lull her into a sleep.

Operative Juan Alvarado continued walking in the cool wasteland breeze. He sweated because of the heavy back he had to haul for Regulators Brittany Ward and Oscar. Traveling to Roosevelt Academy had been silent. There were no sounds of animals, people, or other creatures. A force or incident had affected the region sending a chill down the Operative's spine. The route from Dickerson had been through craggy rocks and the ruins of Faded Pomp Estates, just north of the academy. To their backs the skyline held the broadcast towers of WKML, the SatCom Array, and long broken power lines.

Ahead of them the Regulators could see the remains of two buildings standing out of the wasteland earth, the remains of a third building sunken in an unseen plaza, along with a thick column of black smoke coming from the plaza and rising high into the air. Ward and Oscar knew it meant something more ominous than fire. Oscar scouted ahead to make certain their approach was clear. Piled in the southern most corner where the retaining wall of the plaza had been broken were several large burnt black bodies. Ward, Oscar, and Alvarado descended the stairs to the sunken square. Muscles on the burnt bodies had tightened, forcing them into a fetal like position with their arms and legs curled into their chest.

"I guess we don't need to worry about super mutants here," commented Juan as he dropped the supply bag to the dead tree in the middle of the square. "Question is now: Who killed the super mutants?"

"Not the Brotherhood of Steel or the Centurions, or those Outcasts," answered Oscar as he pointed out the walls of the courtyard. "They tend to leave a mark or insignia, and this place has none."

"Check the bodies, we're still looking for some missing people from Dickerson," Brit's order was for all of them.

Juan helped Oscar pull the bodies from the smoldering pile. The mass cremation occurred a few days before and Alvarado noted the smell of chemicals and use of homemade napalm. The black Regulator agreed to the smell. Raiders and slavers were not known to use napalm flamethrowers or incinerators. Only super mutant bodies were in the pile, no human remains were found in the smoking heap of burnt flesh.

"We have three buildings to check," Oscar pointed them out, "we each take one and see if we can find any clues to where these people might be."

"That's a dumb idea." Alvarado voiced his concern as he looked at the three buildings. There would be many places for a raider, super mutant, or slaver to hide or plan an ambush.

Brit hit Alvarado upside the back of his head, "the froshie has a point, despite his lack of respect. We'll search each building together and watch each other's back."

Juan was rubbing the back of his head. His gun stuffed between his dead arm and warm body. "What the hell was that for," he asked indignantly to Ward.

"You need to talk with more respect," Brit scolded Alvarado like she would a child. "This isn't the Brotherhood, you can't disrespect anyone, member or not. As a Regulator you can only gain respect from your fellow members if you are found deserving of it; it is not handed out with shinning metal armor."

Alvarado kept his mouth shut, grumbling only under his breath as he held his gun. Oscar switched to a pump action shotgun as they walked over to one of the buildings. Ward kept out her rifle as Oscar tested the door. The knob was locked and Regulators were not known for their patience. The black Regulator with cornrows aimed at the top hinge and fired. He repeated tis process for the bottom hinge. Magnum slugs with magnesium cores hit the hinges, a proper round for fighting super mutants and exploding doors off their hinges.

Brit motioned for Oscar to step aside and he held to the door frame, Alvarado following suit to the other door frame. Ward kicked the door in, making it crash into the decrepit school building. In the cloud of dust that rose, she knelt down and took up quick sights behind her rifle. Oscar turned in and covered above her. Alvarado covered them both from behind as they walked throughout the building.

Two of the three buildings held nothing. They searched all the rooms, closets, and the maintenance tunnels. Brit had put Juan in charge of checking each gore bag. His good hand had felt so many skulls, lungs and arms he thought of becoming a doctor after this assignment. Rancid blood and rotten flesh still clung to his hand and right arm sleeve. The last building was laid out the same way as the last. Alvarado found himself arm deep in another gore bag made by super mutants. The smell of it told him it was months old.

"Urgh, I think there is some dog mixed in with these parts," sure enough, the Hispanic Brotherhood of Steel Operative born in Rivet City pulled out a dog's skull that still had half of its skin and a bloated tongue. Juan tossed it aside and dug back in. "I hope to God I'll be able to get the smell out."

"Didn't peg you as one to believe in God," Brit's words were inquisitive as she searched desk draws, smiling as she pocketed some caps.

"There are many things you'd never know about me, Brit," corrected Juan, his attempt at smarminess while elbow deep in a gore bag. "My mother instilled the belief of God in me, along with Father Clifford." He paused for a moment and sighed, "I am not a bat shit crazy sea lot like the Church of the Children of Atom."

"I wasn't going to say you were," Brit rolled her eyes as she clicked the bolt on her rifle back and forth.

"I believe in the Son, the Father, and the Holy Spirit," Alvarado explained as he held his breath and reached in further to the gore bag, hoping to find some clue as to any of these lost souls. "The Blessed Virgin protects and watches over me and my family. My beliefs are not tangible; it is a presence you feel in your every being."

"It seems these poor people didn't have much help from your Blessed Virgin or God," Brit picked up a bald man's disfigured skull.

"These are but our earthly vessels," said Juan as he shook his arm to get the gore off, "once they are finished our souls enter paradise in heaven. Heaven is a place with no pain, no hunger, just utter bliss and grace as we walk with the Lord and his only Son, who died for our sins."

"So why stick around? Why not just take the big dirt nap," asked Ward, trying to understand this froshie's religion.

"There is a plan for all of us, I know this now more than ever before. We are tested here before the Lord Almighty." Having found no discernable remains Ward and Alvarado met up with Oscar, "our test is to remain faithful and to help spread peace throughout this damaged world. Saint Monica, the patron saint of Rivet City, was born south of the Capital Wasteland in a place called Great Lanta and faced more hardships guided only on faith. Through her faith, it is said she was able to change the cruelty born and breed in Great Lanta, one that even corrupted her own son."

"The wasteland corrupts man people," Oscar answered as he sat with his back against the Academy's wall. He kept his head down and the shotgun between his legs. Oscar looked up at the two of them and pointed his thumb in the direction of the room his backside rested on. The stench of death, decomposition and blood filled the room. Brit held her and to her mouth and nose. Alvarado dry heaved when he saw the room and stumbled out, his back convulsing as he wretched against the wall.

Shattered, Alvarado began to recite, "I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary…." His mind turned back to the horrible mutilated bodies in the next room and wretched again, interrupting the Apostles' Creed.

Point Lookout was amassed in fog, the early morning brought frost to the wooden dock. After the Lone Wanderer had traveled there, word got out at the natural beauty and available resources located there. The strangle hold of Tobar the Ferryman, Ark & Dove tribals, and the preserved brain of Professor Calvert had been lifted. Disenfranchised farmers from Saint Mar and Drayden tried to move into the swampland, but found the locals to be unwilling to communicate or share. Swampfolk still ruled that land with their deformed fists and double barreled shotguns.

Pilgrim's Landing had flourished as a deep port trading town. Trading ships from the Eastern Shore made the town grow in population size, along with farmers from Saint Mar and Drayden. Vandykers, a private non-national mariner organization created by the newly elected Judge Joost Van Dyke of Grayditch, held the former People's Bank of Point Lookout as their main office because of the security it provided. The dock of Pilgrim's Landing had been reinforced and expanded by the Vandykers and Eastern Shore merchants using centuries old trees from the bogs and swamps. Swampfolk did not take too kindly to this and started to raid the town. To curb these attacks, the Brotherhood of Steel constructed their outpost in the heart of swampfolk territory to divert attention from the town.

In doing so, the Knights and Scribes at Turtledove Outpost became the bait so the swampfolk only would attack the town near Haley's Hardware or the bridge over the northern river. The lighthouse was unmanned ever since the Lone Wanderer installed a working light bulb to guide the ships safely through the fog. Several local tribals, decreased in number after the Lone Wanderer, remained at the Ark & Dove Cathedral where they produced refined punga fruit. To the south on the dunes of the beach lay a small encampment of olive green tents that bore the sign of the cross. The Disaster Relief Outpost had been converted a few years ago into a Christian Mission. Mission's symbol, two crossed lines, offered aid to all those that sought it, including the swampfolk.

Operative Daniel Roe walked the extended dock as his ghouls helped unload the cargo of the _Majesty_. Teamsters and porters helped move the goods to Madame Panada's House of Wares. Rubbing his hands on a cloth, Tarek ibn Khaled stood beside Roe. The sun was to their East, marking the day soon to start, and the beam of the lighthouse stretching out into the bay to warn sailors of their position to the shore. Humidity was making Tarek's hair friz, fussing over it he pulled it back tightly twisting it around a stick.

"Point Lookout still holds many mysteries, Mister Roe," informed the first mate as he tightened his hair around the stick. "We will be docked here for a week, Cap'n Greene has business in town and we need new supplies for the journey to Neptune's Fork."

"I know asking you and your men to travel into Neptune's Fork is a big favor," acknowledged Roe as he thought about the weeklong stay in Point Lookout.

"The people who pay you to go out there do it well," the statement had an inflection at the end like a question. Roe did not rise to the bait as Tarek raised an eyebrow, _most mercenaries bragged on how many caps they collected_, the first mate thought. "The Cap'n also has plans for Neptune's Fork, perhaps even setup a trading post there. What is that you hope to find?"

_It is what I hope not to find_, thought Roe as he craned his neck to take in the sights of Pilgrim's Landing, "where can a man buy a drink and get a bed here?"

Tarek smiled, the mercenary held his thoughts close, "the bar in Pilgrim's Landing is near the Ferris wheel, as for a bed you can get one at the Homestead Hotel, but it is expensive. The Christian Mission is free, has many beds and it is in a safe part of town."

Roe tugged up his face mask to cover his nose and mouth, "will my team be accepted there?"

"As long as they do not commit violent acts they will be accepted," informed Tarek as he held a hand to Roe's shoulder, "you, my friend, should dine with me and my family tonight."

"That is kind of you," answered Dan, _I would hardly call you a friend though_, he thought as he turned to look Tarek in the eyes. "I do not wish to impose on you and yours."

"I insist, Roe, we would enjoy your company," the Eastern Shore's man was kindly and benign, reaching up into his eyes. "My wife likes to hear about other lands and my children are enraptured by the tales of the Lone Wanderer."

Dan had a crooked smile under his face cloth," I know some of the stories, but I am not a good story teller."

"That does not matter to them," shrugged Tarek as he laughed twice, "they will think you are the best story teller since Homer. It is decided then, after you and your team is settled of course. Our dinner begins at sun down," he leaned in close to whisper the last part, "this invitation is only for you, Dan. Not the whole team."

Roe's scowl was hid under his face mask. Dislike of ghouls was common in the wasteland, but since he had been working with six of their kind he couldn't imagine why. Rumors and stories of them eating human flesh were completely unfounded and he could hardly smell them as others would claim. Dan wouldn't even go as far to say they were rotten or decomposing skin. He had seen dead bodies and could tell the difference. Ghoul physiology wasn't were his knowledge lay, but he knew enough to see that most commonly held beliefs were out of fear of the unknown. He did not hold this against Tarek, it was hard to have an open mind in the way society functioned these days.

Dan nodded his understanding and collected his mercenary team. While in town, he had convinced Captain Greene to return their weapons. They had a week and much could happen in that time; and to insure payment, Greene needed Roe alive. The black operations team for BIOS walked the dock of Pilgrim's Landing, six black armored and faceless mercenaries with their leader in gray combat armor allowing only his eyes and hair to be seen. Some residents pointed and others murmured amongst themselves as the team passed. A mother scooped up her child from the planks of the boardwalk, the word 'Immortals' on her lips as she removed the kid from their sight.

Rumors still persisted on the group, even Three Doghad reported on them and the skirmish at the Crossroads. People claimed to have seen them in Rivet City, Friendship Heights, Megaton, and even Drayden. However, this was not true because this was the first time out of Grayditch, besides a little operation at the Republic. They walked to the Christian Mission, Point Lookout's boardwalk ending in stairs leading to the dunes where the green army tents were erected. The Christian Mission was marked by red crosses on white backgrounds, but in the middle of the encampment stood a large ten foot post with a crossed bar on it. A fair amount of people walked around the encampment, nearly thirty in all from the quick headcount Roe took. There were no guards, or walls, they were a completely open society.

"Welcome, guests and friends," greeted a man with a black shirt, white collar, black well-worn pants and boots. His hair was combed back, making a duck tail in the back, with gray hair coming in just above his ears. He stood at no more than five foot and five inches, making him rather short for a man. Light scars on his face, washed away by the sun's rays and time, told the story of a troubled youth.

"Greetings, father," replied Franklin as he nodded. Roe was surprised, his second – in – command could know this stranger, and it then dawned on him that it was a familiar title to the ghoul.

"Welcome to Point Lookout's Christian Ministry, I am Father Marcus Varro. As long as you are here and do not cause conflict, you will be my honored guests," his smile was warm, but the words he spoke had the harsh tones of one who kept his promises.

"Dan Roe," introduced the Brotherhood of Steel Operative, "and this is my team. We seek a place to rest and safety from all that may wish us harm."

"No one here will harm you. What we have we will share, Dan Roe," Reverend Marcus Varro turned slowly and bade the mercenaries to follow him. He pointed to the other green tents, "there is the men's resting place, and that is the women's. Here is the cafeteria where we share our meals, and the medical tent here, and my church. Our services are every morning at dawn and every night at sundown."

Roe pointed to the male and female tents, the team dispersed without a word. "Thank you for the hospitality. We plan on only staying a week, though there must be a way for us to repay your kindness."

"You are welcome to stay as long as you like," Varro held the flap of the church tent open for Roe to pass through. Inside there were several people sitting in rough pews in front of a crooked wooden cross, equal in size to the one at the center of camp. Most of the patricians were women and as Roe passed he could see their deformities. Cleft palates, engorged heads, and mutated skin showed them to be swampfolk. Behind the wooden cross was a flap of cloth that separated Varro's office and sleeping quarters from the main room, "I respect that you held yourself from violence when you saw my practitioners. Not many men would hold themselves back."

"Swampfolk make interesting practitioners," commented Roe as he took off his riffle and rucksack. "From what I've heard, isn't it rare to see the female?"

"My mission appeals to the females, despite the wishes of male swampfolk. However, they know not to attack because any violence done to the females will get them killed by their own kin," the brutality of swampfolk was well known to the areas of Drayden, Saint Mar, and Point Lookout. Father Varro sat at his desk. It was nothing more than an old card table and a rickety chair. "Likewise, sailors' wives come to the mission, along with other residents for their own reasons."

Roe nodded, "as you can tell, me and my team are mercenaries. Rest assured we are not Talon or any group looking to cause trouble."

"I have not seen the likes of your group before," agreed Varro as he ran his hand through his hair, "I had feared you were another group from Obadiah, but now I believe that devil worshipper has second thoughts about attacking us."

"If you are willing to talk about it, I will listen." Dan's hand traced against the wooden podium Marcus used for his services.

"My ministry makes no profit, Dan Roe, all we receive we put back to the people that we serve," Varro seemed anxious talking with Roe so candidly.

"Tell me your troubles, Father Varro," Roe's voice left no room for dissention, "willingness to house us is but fair enough."

Marcus Varro took a large gulp of air, "the first mission was but one woman, a friend of mine from seminary, named Marcella." The Priest removed a burnt book from a pile of other texts. This book had an engraved white cross, "she was still new to the area when she first met a man named Obadiah Blackhall. It was found out that he practiced the dark arts of witchcraft and made a pact with the devil. He hired smugglers to kill her as she moved to limit his power. She was unable to stop him, and he gained more power from a dark tome.

"The Abbey of the Road had not heard from Marcella in the agreed upon time, so I was sent. By time for our first Christmas last year, Obadiah had sent another group of smugglers and swampfolk to dissuade my flock. We survived and saw our second Christmas a few days ago."

"Now your flock wonders if they are days away from another attack," Roe finished off the sentence.

"More like hours, Dan," Marcus Varro looked up to the Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

"This tome you mentioned, it is just a book, no?" Dan was thinking of all Varro had said to him. "What power does a book have?"

Father Varro smiled wickedly as he tossed the bible to Dan, "that book has been the cause of war, peace, love, or hatred for more than two thousand years. A book wields a lot of power in the hands that grasp it. The one Obadiah holds sways most of the swampfolk to his will."

Dan studied the bible and looked to Varro. Obadiah Blackhall sounded like one of the mysteries of Point Lookout that Tarek had mentioned. It might be worth his time to check into the situation, more so than going off on a half-cocked scheme. Looking to the burnt bible, he wondered as to how ink on pages could lead to such conflict. Perhaps Turtledove Outpost would have some answers with the local detachment of the Brotherhood of Steel.

Operative Lolli Pop, now known as Sergeant Yao Guai in Talon Company stood behind the new commanding officer of the reformed Second Scouts. Lieutenant Star – Dancer was a tall woman at six feet and two inches tall. Her hair was brown and twisted in tendrils with wax and grime. On her face, on the right side, was a black tattoo of her original tribe. Star – Dancer had modified her Talon Company armor to include a bandoleer and a sheath for a boomerang blade. Her tribe was in the west of the wasteland close to the old mountains.

On her other side stood Sergeant Gaines, the one Talon mercenary that did not trust or idolize Pop. The Asian Operative ignored the looks of the other Sergeant as Star – Dancer addressed the nine other mercenaries. They stood in two lines, one with five men and the other with four. These mercenaries didn't look harden like Sergeant Gaines, nor were they completely green in the field.

"Commander Jabsco has chosen you to become Second Scouts. Sergeants Gaines and Yao Guai will be with you in training the whole way. You will survive, you will thrive, and you will be the pride of Talon Company," she held her hand in a fist tapping it to her combat plated chest, the tribal tattoo rippling with muscles. "We are the Second Scouts."

"Alright, alright, shut your sound holes," ordered Gaines as he brandished a crumpled piece of paper. The noise of celebration from the new Second Scouts caused other Talons to look their way. "Oy! Raider chow, say something when I call your name. Private Axel!"

A young man with a black bandana wrapped around his hair nodded. Gaines grunted, "Corporal Carrick," and a woman with her hair shaved on one side nodded. "Private Donnelly," a mousy boy no older than fifteen years old responded. "Private Gauge," a woman of twenty years snarled and said here; her skin yellowed from some kind of birth defect or disease. All other pre – War sensibilities would label her attractive except for the yellowing skin.

A boy ran into formation late, he looked as young as Donnelly. His Talon Company helmet was a skewed on his head as the chinstrap was not fastened. He clumsily dropped his duffle bag. As he bent down to fix it the woman named Gauge kicked him in the ass so he fell down. Sergeant Gaines rushed up to the young private with dirt on his face and picked him up by the nape of his neck like a young pup.

"Your name, pencil dick," yelled the Sergeant, his spit hitting the young man's cheeks and eyes.

"M…M…Motel, Sergeant, Sir!" Answered the private, he was scared shitless.

Sergeant Gaines let the private go and looked him dead in the eyes, "well, M – M – Motel, why are you late? Lost your balls? Forgot yah brain? Cause you ain't using either one! Go apologize to the LT." Private Motel looked at Gaines and Star – Dancer just as the Sergeant yelled in his ear, "Run, run, run, Motel!"

The scared private ran to Lieutenant Star – Dancer, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, for showing up late, ma'am," and just as Gaines yelled for him to return to line she kicked him in the ass.

Motel picked himself up and ran to his spot in formation. Gaines continued to yell in his ear, "no apologize to Sergeant Yao Guai!"

Motel ran to Pop as fast as his short legs could carry him, "I'm sorry, Sergeant, for being late, sir." As he turned to leave, he stopped and braced himself for a kick in the ass. Pop didn't kick him, feeling pity for the young private. Seeing Star – Dancer and Gaines looking at him, he snarled at the kid and spate on the private's back. Gaines had him run back to formation, as the kid breathed heavily.

"Motel, yah bastard of a whore and a ghoul, you didn't apologize to me, don't you think I deserve an apology?" Private Motel apologized to Sergeant Gaines, who punched him in the face. The Talon private scrambled to his position in the formation and Gaines cleared his throat, "Private Ibao!"

An older private, nearing his late twenties, nodded and Gaines noted it. "Private Kirkland," asked Gaines and another private nodded as she tied her hair into a ponytail. "We all know Private Motel is here, isn't that right, Motel?" The kid turned bright red and looked down at his feet, "Private No – Where," a man with a similar facial tattoo like that of Star – Dancer nodded, the sleeves removed on his combat armor showing a similar tribal tattoo running down both his arms grunted. "Corporal Ryker," a man missing an eye did a best representation of a salute. He was clearly an old guard as Gaines and Ryker shared eye contact with a silent understanding.

"Private Skaagz," asked Gaines with an upturned lip. A man with several warts on his face and open sores around his mouth nodded. Pop couldn't tell if the man was chewing food, tobacco, or a piece of his own inner cheek; yet something was in his mouth as he smiled and ground his teeth. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative could already tell Private Skaagz would be an issue. Sergeant Gaines looked to Pop with a snarl, he leaned in to whisper, "your turn, Sergeant, hope these louts measure up to the standards of the Second Scout master."

Pop leaned in to whisper back, "Gaines, really, I'm flattered but I'm just not interested in you," the non sequitur comment made the veteran Sergeant's face turn red. Pop turned to address the men and women, "today you are Second Scouts. I don't care who you were yesterday, but from today until your dying breath, you will be remembered as Second Scouts. At the crosswords of Yew Street and Church Avenue, eleven men and women, just like each and every one of you, lost their lives so a mission could be completed. Nothing less is expected from you than to honor their sacrifice if required in the line of duty.

"We do not fight blind. Our primary task is reconnaissance. Commander Jabsco is relying on information to have a high rate of completion on contracts. We, the Second Scouts, are to be the vanguard of Talon Company. When enemies talk of Talon Company in fear and hatred, they will be talking of us. When our contract holders pay out bonuses, or recommend our work, it will be because of us. To get to this level, we must train as a unit and gain the skills needed to be the best of Talon Company.

"Lieutenant Star – Dancer, Sergeant Gaines, and I have made a program that will push you to the brink. You will not survive on your own. We can only survive as a unit. As of this moment, all chem use is prohibited. Alcohol will only be allowed on leave, and all of you are on duty until further notice. We will run drills from dawn to dusk, and randomly throughout the night. Commander Jabsco chose you for the Second Scouts. Lieutenant Star – Dancer, Sergeant Gaines, and I didn't chose you. You were forced upon us and now will all get a chance to prove if you were properly chosen to be the Second Scouts," the silence from the men and women of the Second Scouts was harsh to Pop's ears.

"You've got drills to run, Second Scouts!" Yelled Lieutenant Star – Dancer, the start of a training regime began with a six mile run. Gaines and Star – Dancer lead the way as Pop held up the rear, urging the men forward. To be physically fit was one thing, but Pop was also asking them to be mentally fit and that might be what made or break this reformed Second Scouts.

Operative Colin Moriarty Junior walked with the small caravan originally from Friendship Heights. Maggie had secured passage for him, and several others, with a roving merchant selling everything from ammo to spare parts. The adoptive daughter of Billy Creel had done a good job of taken over her father's business in his absence. Caravan travel was still controversial and risky, travel with too large a group or too small a group and you invited raiders. Having a man known as a mercenary, like J.R., traveling with the caravan lead to added protection. The other travelers were looking to head west, hoping to find better land or communities. Of the ten travelers, one was Patrick Keyes.

Patrick was the cousin of Susie Mack, the former girlfriend of J.R. and future mother of his child. He was also young and naive as a Vault 101 resident. His blue and yellow jump suit made him stand out amongst the caravan, marking him as the first target if they were to be attacked. J.R. felt a pull in the bottom of his stomach. He had been on plenty of these caravan drives from the Broken Banks to the Pitt, as far to the Eastern Shore and the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Whenever new members joined the caravan, he and the other guards made bets on who could make it and who couldn't. The odds on Patrick were not high.

The Operative walked up to the caravan leader, a scrap seller that had broadened his horizons to ammo that now based himself in Friendship Heights. The merchant looked to be carrying as much equipment as the pack brahmin. The stormchaser hat he wore had a brim that sagged low from age and wear. Cloth covered the back of his neck, ears, and synched with a cord. Green tinted goggles with a leather band wrapped around the top of the hat. His jacket was covered with pockets and filled, likewise with his pants.

"What's the deal with the vaultie, Tycho," asked J.R. with a side long glace to Keyes. He had talked with the caravaneer named Tycho and they traced back their journeys to several common caravaneers and short lived companies.

"Gotta problem with the ground dwellers, eh, J.R.?" The question was not serious, as the Vault Dwellers were seen as being isolationist except for their work collecting parts in Friendship Heights, educating the local population, and the obvious exception of the Lone Wanderer or his father. Tycho's voice was deep and breathy, a softness that made one lean in to hear better, "the kid's got a Pip – Boy, its damn good for navigation. I know he's fresh and not pros like us, but he begged for a chance."

J.R. sighed and shook his head as he grabbed a jacket from the pack brahmin, "comp it from my deposit," he said and Tycho nodded.

The walled city of Megaton was disappearing behind them as J.R. walked to the back of the caravan. Patrick Keyes eye brightened when saw the face of J.R. and began to wave. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative shook his head and the Vault teen faltered in his smile. J.R. wrapped the jacket of thin brahmin leather around his shoulders.

"You're and easy mark for snipers and raiders," commented the Operative, as he gave a reassuring squeeze on the kid's shoulder. "Meet me when we make camp, do not talk about until then."

They would not break for camp till the last light of the sun had passed over the rocky horizon. Tycho chose a hilltop that allowed an unadulterated view around them for miles. This also left them open for a harsh cold breeze as the wasteland had vast temperature disparity. Small lean-tos and tents were set up of the thinnest materials available. J.R. had a hot plate wired to a small fusion battery to cook his food and warm his drinks. Too often during his time as a caravan guard were raiders and thieves alerted by smoke or light from even the lowest lying camp fires. A hot plate did not go out due to wind or rain. His beans were boiling over.

Keyes sat down next to J.R., "mind if I join you?" The question was moot as the vault resident had already sat down.

"Already have," said the Brotherhood of Steel Operative as he spooned out some beans into a small cup. "Warms you up and tons of protein, don't mind it as its two hundred years past due."

Keyes stirred the spoon in the beans, "I followed your advice…."

"Did you clear this by Amata," the beans were too hot to eat and J.R. blew on them.

"Not exactly," said Patrick as he brushed his hair and put the beans down on the rocky surface.

J.R. looked up to the teen's eyes. "I'm going to watch your back, Patrick. When we get to Tenpenny Tower, you're going to stay with me."

"You don't owe me or Susie anything," the comment was ridiculous to J.R. as he knew his ex would never forgive him if her cousin died; and he wouldn't be able to live with himself either.

"I'm going to need your help," J.R. didn't want the kid to get in trouble, "first off, you do not mention to anyone my affiliation to the Brotherhood. Second, you don't go anywhere without telling me. Everything I say, you do."

"And if I don't agree?" Patrick Keyes left because of the harsh rules of Vault 101, he was not about to agree to another dictator.

"You'll be dead in a week," said J.R., his voice flat making the prediction sound as a matter – of – fact.

"Oh yea? What makes you think that?" The adolescent asked obnoxiously, _who do you think you are_, he thought in his head.

"Patrick, I've been riding caravans since I was eleven," J.R. was appraising this teen and found him currently lacking. "You lack common sense out here. Your death would either be an accident or murder. Now shut the fuck up and shake my hand to seal the agreement." J.R. offered his outstretched palm and waited throughout the silent pause, "shake my hand or I'll tell yah cousin and clear my conscience of your inevitable death." Patrick's grip surprised the Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

The afternoon was cold. Morning brought in the first frost on the streets and remaining panes of glass. Henry Fleet wore a jacket that hung to his knees and was made of yao guai fur. He stood on the second floor balcony of an old brick townhouse that looked out into the street. LaCroix's Grayditch Guardian had announced the speech, but word of mouth worked to expand the crowd. Fleet was beginning to get nervous as the crowd was building in the street.

Marshall's Men roamed the crowd, occasionally stopping random people to frisk them for weapons. Grayditch Guards were securing the perimeter and keeping watch. In other parts of the city, merchants and workers went about their day, unable to justify free time for the mayor's speech. Kids, the elderly, and those not working because their jobs didn't have long hours (or they lacked employment all together) filled the street. Fleet breathed into his hands to warn them up as he stepped forward on the balcony.

"Grayditchers, travelers, and citizens from all over the Capital," he addressed the crowd. His voice projected for all to hear him. From his guards, Fleet knew that Burke, Vala, Holmes and Creel were in the crowd; the representative from Tenpenny Tower being the last to arrive. "Thank you for assembling on this chilly afternoon to hear a long winded politician speak, I promise to keep it short so you may all enjoy a warm fire and meal.

"We sit on the ruins of a great empire, on that our forefathers and elders told stories of out of nostalgia. We live in the remains, use the technology, and occasionally maintain their morals. The strength of the American Empire came from cooperation between the people." Fleet held out his left hand, the fingers outstretched so all could see. "Five settlements began talks of working together and supporting one another through cooperation. However, these settlements could not come to a full agreement and remain separate."

Slowly, Henry Fleet closed his fingers together into a fist. It was a sign of power all too familiar in the wasteland. "Together, through cooperation, this area can become a force to be reckoned with that no outside government, party, or organization can overtake. A strong economy, a strong military will provide safety, peace, and the liberty to pursue a viable livelihood. In a few days we shall begin a new year. Let two thousand two hundred and eighty be the year the people of the Capital united for the betterment of all!"

The crowd cheered so loud people in the markets thought Grayditch was under attack. The City Council waited inside the townhouse, some offered to shake Fleet's hands or pat him on the back. Others offered their congratulations verbally. Marshall Lawson held his tongue and kept to himself. The old Regulator's eyes wandered around the room and spotted the familiar face in unfamiliar clothing.

"I had a feeling you would be here," said the bearded man.

"Was it me specifically you expected to see, or just one from the Brotherhood of Steel," Elizabeth Jameson felt out of place in the business suit she wore. The Head Scribe took the idea from Star Paladin Cristano Bael, it attracted less attention than shining T-45d power armor or Crimson Scribe robes.

Lawson's whiskers bristled between a smile and grimace. He didn't answer the Head Scribe's question as he turned into talk with Jameson privately. "I see the invisible hand of the Brotherhood behind this."

Elizabeth smiled benignly, the Regulator knew less about the talks than she did, "I wish we could take credit, but alas, these talks were not our idea. The towns of Graydtich, Megaton, Rivet City, Friendship Heights, and Tenpenny Tower started them without another group knowing their true purpose."

"So, your domain is slipping out of your hands," Lawson looked to anger the Brotherhood of Steel Head Scribe.

He succeeded, somewhat, "we have never claimed to hold our rule of the former Columbia Commonwealth, Regulator Lawson. We have fought in the ruins of D.C. for twenty years to take back the city one block at a time. I won't disrespect your organization. I would hope you would offer the same respect to mine."

Marshall remained quiet for a second as he stared into the aging eyes of the Head Scribe, "no disrespect, ma'am, but you need to be out here far more than twenty years to put yourself into a process that will affect everyone."

Elizabeth stared back into the eyes of Lawson, her gray orbs burning into his hazel brown eyes. "That is a _capital_ idea, Marshall, one you should share with Grandmaster Cruz. Because if what Fleet has suggested comes about, I would wonder where the Regulators would fit."

The Mayor of Grayditch was approaching the two of them and embraced them in a one armed hug each. Of all the councilors, people, and advisors offering him praise and adulations, these two were the only ones he initiated the embrace. Henry Fleet flashed a wide toothed smile. His teeth were whiter than the average wastelander. Jameson and Lawson did not return the smile. Others looked on to them.

Fleet let go and looked at each person. "That was a good beginning."

"You've already had a good beginning," commented Jameson as she walked a small way with the two men as Henry had them to the stairs.

"Well, we must move onwards," fleet nodded as he looked to Marshall Lawson, "we should talk…in private, Sheriff Lawson."

Jameson frowned but nodded as she walked back to the other councilors, "what would you wish to speak to me of, Mayor?"

"Marshall, I need you to muster up as many trustworthy couriers as possible." The law man nodded as they walked down the stairs to the landing of the first floor. "Two of them must being willing to go to Paradise Falls and Evergreen Mills."

Lawson growled his hatred and disdain for slavers was well known. The slave traders from Evergreen Mills attempted to set up a black market in Grayditch. Marshall Lawson broke down the beginnings of the ring with five bullets in the heads of the slavers who resisted arrest. Two were awaiting trial and treated with the least amount of civility in jail. All of their slaves were set free, most looking to travel to the Temple of the Union at the Lincoln Memorial and a few settled in Grayditch.

"Sheriff, I know your reservations. I am of the belief that inclusion into my agreement will moderate them," said Fleet, his political beliefs tempered from seeing how the City Council and the Judicial Court acted.

"Slavers don't reform or change their ways," informed the Regulator, upset at how this political leader could be so naive. "The only good slaver is a dead one."

"Then I take it you have recused yourself from the trial on those two men from Evergreen Mills? No, I didn't think so, Marshall." Fleet's eyes were dull as stone and bore into the Regulator's head. "Now, I trust you to do this for me, Marshall, or else I'll find means that will allow me to do so. I would also extend a message to your organization's leader."

"I work for the City of Grayditch and its people," replied Marshall Lawson and Fleet laughed.

"Do not insult my intelligence," retorted the Mayor as he put a hand on the man's shoulder, "you were and still are a Regulator. If all of the towns and cities of the Capital Wasteland connected together, what role would the Regulators take? If asked to move on, would they? Do you know these answers, Marshall Lawson?" The old man with a crescent shaped scar around his right eye narrowed them to slits as the Mayor of Grayditch leaned into to talk in the Regulator's ear, "I have a need for the Regulators and would like to see them live past the year two thousand, two hundred and eighty. To that degree, I think we can both agree."

A/N: Thank you for reading this, the fifth chapter of my fourth volume. I apologize for how long it has taken me to put it out. In the upcoming chapters, I will be diverging from my usual writing style to focus on one section of BIOS for the whole chapter. On deck right now is Dan Roe's time in Point Lookout. Please review, it is the fuel that keeps me going.


	6. Swampland Prophecy

I do not own Fallout, the Fallout universe, nor is this written fiction gaining any profit. This fiction is purely the concoction of my crazy and addled brain. Enjoy the ride.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 6.) Swampland Prophecy

Tarek ibn Khaled lived in a building that was once a retail store of some goods or another. The Large glass windows had been broken long ago and were now replaced by tanned animal skin worn through in its own fat. Inside his home were many odds and ends from his travels around the Chesapeake Bay. One room housed his five sons, another for his three daughters, and one he shared with his wife. What was once the sales floor served as the living and dining room, the kitchen was off limits to the men as Tarek informed Daniel Roe.

The seven men sat on cushions made from animal skin, fur, and feathers from many different breed of birds. The sons of Tarek ranged in age from five years of age to nineteen. Dan was surprised at the family of the first mate to the _Majesty_. Other sailors were enjoying their time with pubs, games, and local whores. Tarek was the only one to have roots in Point Lookout that had more depth than a rented room and dirty rucksack of seaward spoils.

The women came out from the kitchen. A large metal platter moved by two of Tarek's daughters displayed a roasted mole rat with punga fruit in its jaw. The daughters of Tarek set the platter down and Dan could see some long grain wild rice under and around the mole rat. Tarek's young daughters ran back to the kitchen and came back out with their mother and older sister. Four other platters joined the other. They were smaller and held fruits, vegetables, and other foods to compliment the mole rat. There was even a type of bread that was slightly raised but mostly flat and circular.

"It is customary for you as the guest to eat first," Tarek said as he showed Dan how to pick the meat and rice together with the bread.

Dan followed the Eastern Shore man's example and bit into the bread with mole rat and rice. As he completed his first bit along with their father, Tarek's sons began to eat followed by his daughters. Holding up the bread with meat and rice, Dan looked at Tarek's wife, "thank you, this is delicious. The mole rat has such an enjoyable flavor and taste. It's not like anything I've ever had before in the Capital."

The Eastern Shore woman held a hand in front of her mouth as she chewed on her food. She did not look similar to Tarek, who was more olive skinned. Her skin was brighter and held more of a glow. Auburn highlights shimmered though her rich milk chocolate hair. Her eyes were dark emerald pools with a hazel rim around the iris. "Thank you, Mister Roe, but I did not cook the mole rat. Our eldest daughter, Mara, was the main chief for tonight. All praise and honor is hers."

Mara had a similar complexion to her mother but hair like her father. She kept her locks thick, voluptuous, and perfumed to the point that Roe could smell her over the meal. She smiled and nodded her thanks. Batting her long curved eyelashes, Dan noticed her eyes were the same green rimmed hazel orbs as her mother. Mara's form was slender and not as filled out as her mother, who was a bit wider after having seven children. Dan could see her hips, the wide bones poking out from under a cloth wrapped dress spun around her frame. Wide hips were a mark that Mara could be as fertile as her mother and exciting the primeval portion of his brain.

Tarek interrupted the moment, "Mara, the princess of my soul, is an excellent cook. But only because her mother, Karan, is a great instructor."

Dan's eyes lingered on Mara before he turned back to Tarek, "thank you once again for inviting me into your home. Your family is lovely."

"You do me honor," said the first mate as he smiled at his family with pride.

"No, I am the one that is honored," rejoined the Brotherhood Operative with a crooked smile aimed at Mara. "Back home, I do not have many home cooked meals. Most of my food has been expired for two hundred years. Likewise, for the last few months my only company has been ghouls."

"How could you work with such monsters," Tarek's eldest son had a tone of disgust and shock

"Khalid," warned Tarek with a strong voice, look, and stern shake of his head.

"It is quite alright. This new team…was forced upon me," informed Roe, painting truth within fiction. "Mister Alexandria wanted a special team, one that would be faceless. What better way to have a faceless team than one that has a team with rotten faces."

"You sound like you don't like your team," the seven year old son asked, a questioning look on his face.

"Don't get me wrong, a ghoul is a ghoul. I've heard of the ferals living in the swamps here and all. But my team is different. So full of life and stories," Roe smiled as the kids looked at him with rapt attention. "One of my team used to play professional football. Do you kids know what that was?"

Tarek's youngest sons and daughter shook their heads from side to side. Dan smiled and confessed, "neither did I till he told me about the old world sport. Two hundred and ten years ago, a sport was played on a hundred yard field. Instead of two opposing sides fighting with weapons, they pitted skilled warriors in groups called teams. One team would attempt to move a ball into another team's 'end zone' and then the opposing team would try to regain the land and enter their rival's end zone. These Teams came from great cities and regions across the United States, battling each other to prove greatness."

"Wars and treatise were solved by these Teams," asked one of the middle sons, no older than fourteen.

"No, this game was purely for entertainment," Dan smirked as he ate more, the blank stare from Tarek's kids was telling of the sad times the post – apocalyptic world was settled in. Everyday existence was about survival for today and the next day, not for the sake of personal pleasure. "Think of a life with very little to do because food was plentiful, safety didn't depend on your weapon's condition, and you could travel places freely. Rook, the ghoul mercenary in my group, was a great entertainer and warrior."

"Daddy, can we see this ghoul," asked one of the young girls that had brought out the food. "Please?"

"Hush, Samia," chastised her mother and Tarek shook his head, briefly.

"No, little one, maybe when you are older," Tarek said as he ate more of the mole rat.

"Rook is a scary old ghoul," Dan said with a wide smile as he tousled the hair of the second youngest son as he leaned in closer. "He stands at seven feet tall and weighs nearly that of three boulders. His palm," Dan took his hand and held it in front of a goofy face he was making to entertain the kids, noticing that Mara was giggling with her sisters, "could crush a man's skull." Roe acted out the fact and caused the boys to laugh as the little girls gasped in fright.

Mara continued to giggle at her sisters and the mercenary named Dan's story. Tarek ibn Khaled let out a laugh and slapped Dan on the back as the Operative righted himself up. "And you thought you would be a bad story teller," the first mate smiled as he ate more.

"Where are you staying, Mister Roe, while on shore leave," asked Karan, Tarek's wife. The looks shared between Dan and Mara did not escape her motherly gaze.

"Dan, please call me Dan, I am a quest in your house and now consider you all friends. My group and I are lodging at the Christian Mission under the favor of Father Varro," Roe stated as he turned his eyes downward. "The Father has been most gracious for accepting my group in his mission. However, I feel the Father may have ulterior motives for allowing us to stay."

Tarek's face fell slightly, "Marcus expects so much from people, yet accepts little with open arms."

"I've also heard of another name, Blackhall," Tarek ibn Khaled bit his tongue as Karan sucked in some air.

"Blackhall is a very powerful name in Point Lookout," informed the Eastern Shore man, his words were chosen carefully and pronounced slowly with every consonant.

"I've heard the rumors that he and his kin are the main voice of the swampfolk," Dan could see Tarek hesitate.

"I wouldn't say the Blackhalls are their voice. That family is more like the overlords of the swampfolk," Tarek motioned for Karan not to say anything or for the kids to add to the conversation. "Let us not sully our meal on talk of such dark marks in this town. Instead, tell the children of the Lone Wanderer, the kids have wanted to know more of his exploits in the D.C. Ruins."

Dinner lasted well into the dark of night. Platters that had been brought out by the women were cleared away to the kitchen when there was nothing left but bone and refuse. During the meal, Dan and Mara had made eye contact plenty of times with small smiles that lasted nanoseconds. Tarek's children had enjoyed the stories of the Lone Wanderer. Dan had told them of how the Lone Wanderer saved Grayditch and the final battle between the Brotherhood of Steel and the Enclave. It was the first time the kids had heard of the integral part the Lone Wanderer played at Adams Air Force Base. To hear that one person was able to bring down the Enclave, the most powerful force at the time, was a great shock and fully entertaining.

Dan was certain by now that Karan, Tarek's wife and Mara's mother, knew his interest in their daughter. If the first mate of the _Majesty_ knew of the attraction between his daughter and the Operative, than he hid it very well from Dan. Roe hugged Tarek ibn Khaled in friendship and kissed Karan's hands, thanking her profusely for the meal. The family wished him good night as he walked out the refurbished small store to the street of Pilgrim's Landing. Before he even took three steps to Father Marcus Varro's mission, he heard a sound from the alleyway.

Inspecting the noise, he soon realized he was being beckoned by the woman who caught his interest all night during the meal. In the darkness, Daniel Roe stood with Mara bint Tarek closer now than how they had been all the time during dinner. Light from the stars illuminated her hair and the curves of her body under the wrapped cloth dress she wore. In her hands, she held a wrapped cloth bag weighted down so much it sagged. Dan stood close to her, so as their voices would not carry to the house.

"Please, take this food for your team. They too should not be denied a warm meal," her voice was sweet and light as her giggle had been all night through his stories, though with a sultry weight that intrigued Dan.

"You do me and my team honor, Mara," Roe held the bag, his fingers lingering on Mara's as they shared a brief static shock, "thank you."

She bit her lips, smudging the darken lines around her mouth, "will…will you go after Blackhall?"

Roe thought for a moment as he looked in Mara's eyes, "I will do what is the right thing."

"Obadiah Blackhall is an evil man, many have died when they stood in his way," her hand was on his face, the touch did not shock Roe. Her palms were soft, a life of domesticity did not allow her to develop callouses, unlike his hands.

Dan moved his head into her hand. She quickly took it away from him as her father called out for her. She shocked herself with how comfortable she felt with this strange man. As Mara turned to leave, Roe held onto her wrist, "will you let me call on you, Mara?"

She smiled widely and nodded her head to hide her joy. She pulled away from his grasp, a cloth like dress wrapped tightly around her like a sari from times lost long ago. The light from the stars making her hair shine, Mara looked over her shoulder. "Maybe," was all she replied but it was more than enough to warm Daniel's heart and cloud his brain so thickly that he didn't realize how he had returned to the Christian Mission.

Madam Panada's House of Wares was the largest whole-seller of Pilgrim's Landing. A small bazaar had been set up in the bumper car ride across from her and lining the way to the Ferris wheel. Stalls there were nothing more than stretched our blankets, tarp, and occasionally the open parts of former carnival games. Food items were kept near the Ferris wheel, whereas supplies for homes, weapons, and pleasure were kept at the bumper cars and the House of Wares. Stalls moved in and out with the season and ships, yet Madam Panada had lasted longer than all those before her, even before the Lone Wanderer's visit to Point Lookout. Roe and his team were at her shop because she carried the most products, even if some of her prices were marked up more than the competition.

Roe had assumed that Madam Panada would be an elderly woman. Instead, he found a thirty – year old blind merchant with a bad haircut to be a tad underwhelming. Dan hopped she had not cut her hair herself, but it would explain its uneven look and off center pony tail. In the last two years, after the Lone Wanderer had visited Point Lookout, Panada had hired two girls to help out around the store with the increase in customers. A lonely RobCo Protectron served as her means of security.

"'Lo warriors, Welcome to Madam Panada's House of Wares," greeted the woman, her creamy white eyes open wide. Her face was turned to Roe, Franklin, and Zhao. Tamara, Rook, Bin, and Da'an were checking out the food merchants and other small stores.

Dan looked to Franklin, he guessed she had heard their holsters on their combat armor, "good afternoon, Madam Panada, I take it?"

"I am Madam Panada, and you are Daniel Roe," after she had said this, Dan became nervous. "Fret not warrior, while I do divine the future and past, your name is known through word of mouth in this town. What may I assist your with, young warrior and old warriors?"

"What kind of ammo do you have?" Franklin rolled his eyes as Zhao whispered in mandarin to the second in command of the black operations team.

"Madam Panada knew you would ask that," exclaimed the merchant as one of the girls assisting her ran over with a case of sample ammunition, "Deidre will be more than happy to help you old warriors. You may test the quality of the powder, but no live fire for rounds will be tolerated. Warrior Roe, if you will please?"

Dan stepped forward as he watched Zhao and Franklin look at the ammo present by Deidre. "Daniel Roe, will you permit a privilege to Madam Panada? Very few people will agree to allow me to divine and there are very few fates compel me to. There is a power that surrounds you that calls for me to read."

"What are you talking about," asked Roe as he looked for a reason to allow this proclaimed psychic to tell his future.

"Would it hurt for me to tell you the possible future that awaits you?" She asked, her reference in the third person beginning to annoy Roe. "Your presence has a strong power, one I have only felt from a few people. One was named Lockheart and the other preferred no name but his deeds to speak for him."

"What would it entail?" Roe thought, _what could the harm be in having this quack read my future?_

"Lean closer," ordered Madam Panada and as Roe did so her hands reached out and felt his face. It was not a pleasant feeling like from Mara, he tried to pull away but Panada held onto his face with might. "Ahh, yes, Madam Panada sees. You are like the other that came before that weighed his worth not in name but action. A warrior's soul tied to a kind heart and ever calculating brain. Madam Panada offers you two choices, one the future at present and the other, the other is the future you will come to meet in time."

Dan thought pensively, his attention focused more on the rough hands of Panada as she rubbed her hardened palms over his face, "what…what is my life to be."

"You are a warrior, Daniel Roe, but there will be a larger battle that you will be drawn into. Within this battle, you will become the Great Warrior needed for the time, there will be honors and titles added to your name," Madam Panada's squeezed into the flesh of his face and head, her eyes practically rolling in the back of her head. "But there will be sadness deep in your heart, a pain that can never be numbed due to all the death that will be committed under your titles and honors. Those you command know the risk, chose to fight beside you, and will be half in number time after time. Seek solace, young warrior, in a long life that you will lead. However, temper yourself in knowing that your soul and being will never know rest."

At the end, Daniel pulled back violently as he pushed Madam Panada away from his face. The blind clairvoyant stumbled back as one of her assistants caught her. Roe felt a rush of heat on his face. The mask that covered his face just like his ghouls had been pulled down, caught in the moment of the reading it had been pulled down without his knowledge. He returned it to its proper place at the bridge of his nose. Panada's assistant scowled at Roe for having pushed the blind woman away, she helped the merchant stand upright again. A wooden support beam took Panada's weight as she leaned against it to catch her breath.

"Aurela, I am fine," the blind merchant replied, milky eyes searching for Dan, "I have pity for you and those that will be drawn to your brilliance like moths to a flame."

Aurela ushered Madam Panada away so she could recover from the reading. Dan turned to Deidre and his two compatriots, "What was that about," growled Franklin with mild interest as Roe leaned against the counter, his head still spinning.

"Girl, tell me, do Panada's predictions come true?" Roe had paled, his eyes worried as he felt drained from the experience.

Deidre sighed as she locked eyes with Roe, "Madam Panada likes to think she is second-sighted and some people around here encourage it because they believe it or don't know better." Her head nodded in the direction of Aurela, who had returned from putting Panada to bed. "Honestly, sir, if the message was vague than don't expect anything. The specific stuff…well that is usually false, but some people think too much on it and make it really happen out of fear."

"In two hundred years people still believe in this mumbo – jumbo," groused Franklin as Zhao laughed.

"I'm no believer," stated Roe, but a gnawing sensation at the pit of his stomach, _what if?_

"Don't take what Madam Panada says to heart," Deidre said as she packed up the ammo, "she tells better fortunes when you come back and pay."

Roe rolled his eyes as he turned to his team, "I'm going for a walk, alone."

Franklin and Zhao both nodded in understanding. Dan left Madam Panada's House of Wares and Pilgrim's Landing as his feet walked north on one of the few remaining roads. He quickly passed the motel on his left and then truly began traveling the swampland. Star Paladin Bael had marked out the Brotherhood of Steel outpost at the Turtledove Detention Camp for the Operative to visit. A status report would be given and radioed to the Adams Air Force Base. Roe continued to walk down the main road, knowing he'd have to cross the river at the ancient bridge. Made from wood prior to the Great War, the structural integrity was always in question and without any maintenance the crossing was sure to fall into the river one day. It took a little while, but Dan could make out a long house to his right and the covered bridge that spanned the river in front of him.

Dan pulled out his rifle. It was a Chinese assault rifle, a weapon that had quickly became the standard for Roe's nameless black operations team. Looking down the sights of the automatic rifle, Roe checked to make sure the coast was all clear. As he approached the covered bridge, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. His feet crossed the stacked out tires that obstructed the pathway when a shout could be heard.

"This here is our swamp!" Which was shortly followed by, "we'll git you," as three swampfolk men emerged from their hiding spots around the covered bridge. Two of the mutated inbred men across the bridge were running at Roe with an axe and tire iron. Another swampfolk had been waiting for Dan to enter the enclosed bridge with a double barrel shotgun. Roe stared down the twin barrels knowing he was wholly fucked. Then he heard twin cracks of rifle fire.

The swampfolk with the shotgun didn't hear the gun fire. Its head having exploded all over his overalls and his arm broke with hot coppery fire. Roe turned around to see two of his men in faceless black covers and combat armor. He dropped down on his stomach as Zhao and Franklin took out the two swampfolk rushing down the bridge. The mutated brutes were taken down in six shots, three each. Franklin helped Dan to his feet.

"What were you thinking Commander?" The ghoul asked while dusting off the mercenary team leader's shoulders. "Going off on your own in the swamps, it's totally stupid, sir."

"When I want your opinion Franklin…," Roe paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked over the three dead swampfolk, "thank you, both of you. But I must go on from here, alone."

Zhao yelled out in mandarin as he clicked in several new bullets into his Chinese assault rifle's magazine. Franklin put a hand on the former Chinese commando's chest. "Commander, we have a mission, we can't afford to lose you. Lord knows what kind of asshole they'd put in your place next."

"The place I'm going to is pretty straight forward on the map. I don't need a babysitter," assuaged Roe as he picked up his rifle. He held it to his chest now, the strap around his shoulder and neck.

As he walked through the covered bridge, Franklin and Zhao followed him closely. Dan turned around and opened his mouth to yell, but Franklin cut him off. "We're sticking with you, commander, only way to stop us would be to put a bullet in our hearts."

Under his face mask, Roe had a smug smile as he cracked a joke. "Thought the only way to kill a zombie was a bullet in the head."

"Heard that was a good cure for most everything living you wanted dead," rejoined Franklin lightly, his mustache moving with his lips under the face mask.

"Okay, there is a reason why I was going alone, but this mission we're on is being paid for by the Brotherhood of Steel," Roe knew half – truths were the best lies, but he couldn't trust his group of ghouls in full. There was no reason to tell the team they were in fact part of a secret organization of the Brotherhood. "I need to report in that we have made it to Point Lookout. The Brotherhood of Steel has an outpost at the old Turtledove Detention Camp."

"So which way are we to go?" Franklin held his gun at the ready as Zhao copied the American ghoul.

Daniel Roe, Franklin, and Zhao traveled on the road that wound around the raised cliff where the Ark and Dove Cathedral looked over Pilgrim's Landing. A small fork in the road had a sign erected with the Brotherhood of Steel insignia of three cogs, a sword, and curved wings of an eagle. A yellow arrow pointed left to the thin path taking them deep into the swamps. Trees hanging with moss creaked as the wind blew through the boughs.

Five guard towers with automated sentries stood out in the clearing of the trees as the haze of cold air and warmth from the trees met. The antique brushed metal sign that read Turtledove Detention Camp was supplanted by another symbol of the Brotherhood of Steel on the words 'Detention Camp'. Chain link fences still stood, supported by sandbags and Enclave defensive shields. Proctor Bowditch had been at work to secure the outpost that was listed as high risk by the Brotherhood. The one two story building in the camp had a large turret on the roof, a new addition to protect the ground from the air.

The twin muzzle anti-aircraft weapon that was recovered from Adams Air Force Base loomed behind the shoulders of the two Knights that guarded the main gate. An ancient military truck had been turned over as road block to the gate that had been reinforced with Enclave defensive plate. Roe slung his rifle on his back, Franklin and Zhao followed his example. The mercenary captain showed his face to the Brotherhood of Steel guards. The Knights held their ground, guns at the ready as the three mercenaries approached. Dan held his hands up and the ghouls followed his action again.

"State your business, mercenaries," ordered a Knight with his or her voice altered to the cold and robotic sounds of the power armor helmet.

"Crazy Horse, Thirty-two November Echo report to Steel Heart," was all Dan said and the Knights nodded.

One went to the intercom and clicked the talk button. They reported the same call sign and code to the administrative office and removed their finger from the talk button. There was a long silence as Dan walked up to the Knights. He leaned into them, his voice low as he said, "my men are ghouls and are not to be hurt while here."

A crackle on the radio sounded, "Proctor Bowditch permits entrance to Crazy Horse."

"Force me back, like you would a regular wastelander," Dan ordered to the Knights.

"Get back you dirty waster," growled the guard as they forced Roe back by the butts of their rifles.

The ghouls rushed to Roe and helped him up from the ground. Zhao was yelling at the Knights in mandarin. Franklin held the Chinese commando back while holding up Dan. The Brotherhood of Steel Knights aimed at the three mercenaries. Just then the gate opened for the Proctor of the Order of the Shield to see the confrontation. A disapproving look was on his face as he saw the Knights aiming at a BIOS Operative and his team.

"Knights, stand down at once!" The Proctor ordered and both Brotherhood of Steel members kept their laser rifles aimed. He stepped forward, making his crimson robes dragging the swampy muck as he forced the guns down. "I may not be a Knight Captain, Tarro and McCullen, but I am the highest ranking person here. You will listen to my orders!"

"Sorry, sir," replied a Knight as they both put away their laser rifles.

"Crazy Horse," greeted Proctor Bowditch as Daniel Roe moved to walk beside him, "your men can get a drink at Bunkhouse C."

Roe whistled to get his men's attention and told them the location of Bunkhouse C. Franklin and Zhao walked to the place that served as a small cantina. The BIOS Operative continued to walk with Proctor Bowditch, his hands held behind his back. "Any news from the Citadel?"

"You have been out of communication for a while," acknowledged Bowditch as he adjusted the crimson robes of a Scribe. "The locals are talking of unifying into a government. We've been asked to oversee it and lend a hand when our organization is needed. My fortifying of the outposts is starting off well, though there is much to be done."

"You have done a good job here," commented Roe on how the encampment was easily defensible with a small contingent of Brotherhood of Steel soldiers.

"If these blasted swampfolk wouldn't stop attacking we'd be able to do more," Bowditch sniffed at his hand, the pollen affecting his allergies. "Bael has no new orders for you, Crazy Horse. You are to continue on to Norfolk as scheduled."

"That is all well and good," Ban nodded as the gears turned in his head, "let him know I checked in with you, of course. But tell me, what does the Brotherhood know of Obadiah Blackhall?"

Bowditch stopped and looked the Operative in his eyes, "how long have you been in Point Lookout?"

Roe squeezed his hands together¸ _could the fear of Blackhall even make it to the Brotherhood of Steel?_ "This is my second day."

"Do not get caught up in Point Lookout politics," chastised Bowditch. They began to walk up a guard tower that overlooked the northern swamplands of Point Lookout. There was a large plot of land with over fifty mounds of freshly churned dirt. Wooden planks were placed behind each earthen mound, Dan then realized that they were graves. "I traded words with Obadiah on my first day here. He wanted to know when the Brotherhood of Steel would leave from this land, his land. As you can see, my answer was not appreciated."

The graves were the dead swampfolk, killed in self-defense of the Brotherhood of Steel. If Blackhall could command such people to be fatalistic fanatics, than he was too big of a danger to Point Lookout and the Brotherhood of Steel. Mara, his thoughts turned to Tarek ibn Khaled's eldest daughter, was at risk in Pilgrim's Landing. He turned away from the macabre scene of the graves and walked away from Turtledove with Franklin and Zhao.

Near the fork in the road that led to Turtledove, Dan turned to Franklin and Zhao, "we need to limit the Blackhall's power in Point Lookout." He said as he chewed the inside of his cheek, "give me the rest of the day to think about it."

"Commander, I'm not certain that going after this Blackhall family is the right thing to do," Franklin growled as Zhao agreed in mandarin. "I've been asking around as well and the people here are fearful of Obadiah and his whole kin. A fear that is physical and spiritual, as well."

"What would they be spiritually fearful of a family," asked Roe in confusion, shaking his head, he decided to not get into the thoughts of small minded towns' people and tribals, "never mind, we are not in this to kill Obadiah or his family. Varro says his power comes from a book, so we are to take away his power by taking that book."

Two days pass and the dark winter night chilled Roe's skin through his combat armor as he sidled to Rook and Bin. The two ghouls had been in charge of scouting the area around Blackhall Manor. An ancient Second Empire styled house that time had been rather pleasant to in the last four hundred years rose from the swampland deep within Point Lookout. The original estate had been destroyed in the American Civil War, the Blackhalls were always a family of means and quickly rebuilt in the decadent fashion first introduced under Napoleon III. Back in that time period, it was also said by the locals of Point Lookout, that the Blackhalls and their kin had made a pact with the Devil himself, though after the Great War those ideas only remained in the decayed minds of the swampfolk.

The wood of the Blackhall family home had been petrified by the swamp gases, the bog helping kill the bacteria and termites that would have reduced it to timber many years before. Around the house, swampfolk had set up dolls on poles and string. First they were meant as a warning but in recent years had become a demarcation of those that followed Obadiah Blackhall. These swampfolk roamed around the manor as if a recently tamed animal of feral backgrounds. A copse of bushes on a hill served as a good lookout spot for Dan and his team.

"Anything new to report," asked Dan as Bin looked through a pair of binoculars.

"Blackhall still forbids the swampies from sleeping in the Manor," reinforced Rook as he flicked through a small self-made notebook that was little more than sheets of paper in a leather folder with twine holding it together. "We've some of his family come and go. Not like the swampies, looks like they were spared the rads and inbreeding. A young man of average build and dark brown hair was with a woman of shapely build and blonde hair. Based on their relative age, I'd say they were grandchildren and not the direct children of Mister Blackhall. Unless that is, of course, the ol' codger still has the stamina to fuck women forty years his younger."

"There has been mention of his family, though nothing too descriptive until now," Roe thought in his head on the plan he had put in motion for retrieving the book, "we've got three days left before we leave on the _Majesty_."

"When do we plan on doing this thing," Rook looked at his small notebook, a hand drawn map in that most people would think were squiggly lines but represented waterways and ponds.

"Not tonight, Rook," acknowledged the leader of the black operations team as he patted the shoulders of the two ghouls, "take turns on watch, I need you two to be well rested."

Dan walked into Pilgrim's Landing, mud and muck gathered on his combat boots. The same dirt had caked on his armor, covering him in filth and a foul bog smell of decaying matter. Street lights of Pilgrim's Landing were only lit by those that cared for it in their neighborhood. Tarek ibn Khaled's neighborhood had working street lights, all tied up to fusion cell batteries that remained from before the Great War. It was no surprise to Roe, knowing that Tarek would prefer the safety of light for his family. The alleyway near the first mate's house was the location of the secret rendezvous between Dan and Mara.

For four nights, they had been meeting secretly for only short periods of time. They kept their conversations brief so that Mara's family wouldn't find out. To the character of the Tarek's eldest daughter, she never once failed to scrounge up some left overs to feed Dan's team of ghouls. Her kindness had really shocked the BIOS Operative. Mara met him again, tonight, in the alleyway of her family home. They leaned in close together, they did not kiss or embrace, the physical closeness they shared was enough, and Mara had explained that Eastern Shore culture forbade her to act outside of her perceived position. Dan did not understand what she meant. Only knowing that he could not treat this like another relationship back in the Capital Wasteland, Roe promised to not impugn her chastity or virtue.

"How are you and your family," asked Dan as he became lot in her eyes.

"Everyone is doing well. Little Samia has a cold," Mara smiled as she blushed under the Operative's gaze; luckily her features hid the blood that was rushing to her cheeks. "Baba says he and you are leaving soon, is this true Daniel?"

"Yes, it is true," Dan nodded in agreement to the statement, but in a reserved manner to show he could only regret leaving this wonderful woman. "I will write you while I am away."

"You will need to ask Baba for permission for that," she smiled playfully, playing with the under cloth of his armor. "But how would you send the mail to me, hmmm? The place you are to go has not had ships for a long time. Baba says the waters are dangerous there."

"I will write to you and hold on to them, so that when I return, you will read them all," Roe's voice ached, his thoughts on the danger of Neptune's Fork.

"Is this place so dangerous, Daniel?" Roe loved the way she said his full first name, as if it were rude to shorten it Dan.

"Yes, it will be dangerous," he did not want to give her false hopes. Roe never wanted to lie to her unless his life depended on it.

Please make certain Baba will be safe," asked Mara, her hands on his bare forearms, "please swear to me you will protect my father in this dangerous place."

"Mara, I swear this to you," Dan looked into her eyes, "I will make sure both your dad and I come back to you. But I need you to swear to me as well."

"What do you wish me to promise, Daniel?" Her hazel eyes rimmed in green fluttered back and forth as she stared into his brown orbs, her pupils wide because of the low light in the alleyway.

"That you'll protect your family and yourself for the time that your dad and I are gone," he held up a hand as Mara was about to interrupt in the middle of his requests. "And that you'll wait for me."

"What is it, Daniel, what is going to happen?" Her hands tightened on his forearm, she was so close to him now that she could smell the bog on his armor. With that scent in her nose, she pushed the Operative back as her bright eyes flashed with a mixture of fear and anger, "you smell like the swamplands near Blackhall Manor," she exclaimed and looked at his boots, "the black mud is still on your boots!"

"Mara, please, do not turn from me," said Dan as the Eastern Shore born woman spun on the spot to hide her face and emotions. He began to plead, "I can't tell you anything that you don't already know because I fear it will somehow come back to you, your family, or even those people kind enough to shelter my team and I."

"We told you how treacherous the Blackhalls are! Why would you do this to yourself and us, Daniel? Everyone that knows you is at risk when the Blackhalls are on the lookout, from Baba, Mama, to even Little Samia!" Her anger and fear coursed through her as she had turned back to Roe and hit him on the chest plate of his combat armor. Dan pulled her to him, closer to each other now than they have ever been, some of the black muck had caked off of his armor onto her wrapped dress. He brushed her thick dark hair back and out of her eyes, his fingers traveling down her ovular face, his calloused fingers lingering on your soft skin and the back of her neck.

"I won't do anything to harm you, your family, or Pilgrim's Landing," assured Roe as he sighed and let go of Mara bint Tarek.

"Why should I believe this, Daniel," her words were weak and breathy but pierced Roe's heart straight through.

"I promise you, Mara, that after what my team and I do there will still be sunrise and sunset in Point Lookout, yet it will be the start of a new era." Dan stared into her eyes, lost again in the orbs of hazel and green. His forehead came to touch hers, a pose they held for far too many seconds as Karan, Mara's mother, began calling for her missing daughter. She looked at him and whispered 'I believe you,' before entering her family's home. The winter chill felt colder now than it had before, not because it was later at night. It was colder because the warmth from Mara was missing to Roe.

Haley's Hardware was a longhouse with storm shutters and junk in the front yard. The proprietor had woken up one day with no memory of how he had come to own the shop, be in Point Lookout, or even what his name had been. He took his name form the sign and made a profession from it in the border region of the swampland. Haley worked outside of Pilgrim's Landing to the north, but south of the swamplands before the covered bridge. He was the only known merchant to trade with the swampfolk. At the moment, Haley was servicing Roe and his mercenaries.

"That there is the best tech you'll find in my shop," commented the bearded Haley in a red jumpsuit. "Modified the stealth boy myself, I was able to extend the battery life with a rechargeable one that I fitted to a hand crank generator. Takes a while to crank enough juice into it, but it isn't like those one time use three thousand and ones that you have to toss out once they've been used."

"Haley, you made this on your own?" Roe was staring at the strange contraption in front of him. A typical Stealth Boy 3001 from RobCo Industries had a strap to tie on the wrist and a small dish that produced a modulating field of reflected light. Haley's tinkered version was adhered to the remains of a broken power fist along with a jury rigged hand crank that had been soldered to the forearm chassis.

Haley picked up the glove and slid it on his left hand. The articulated metal fingers of the glove came to life when his hand was all the way in, the key pad to the Stealth Boy was still on the back of the palm and fully aglow. The glove ended at mid forearm like a standard power fist, though with an extra black box and hand crank protruding from the tool. Haley cranked the level a few times in a circle which caused the lit screen of the Stealth Boy to pulse.

"This light here means you're at full charge, so you'll be able to get two hours of continuous use from one charge," informed Haley as he entered in the code on the Stealth Boy. A quick flicker and the bearded amnesia victim disappeared in the stealth field crated around him. Sound dampeners muffled, though it did not block, sound he created with his feet while walking. Haley turned the machine off and the light blinked green still, "an orange light means half power, red light means it's out of power and needs a good turn. I've dialed down the radiation effects between uses by installing a two hour lock out after the battery has been drained. Negative effects from prolonged use were seen in my test subjects, so it is best to avoid extended use."

Roe raised his eyebrows, "what negative effects did your test subjects show?"

"Some swampfolk had issues with anger, paranoia, and homicidal tendencies," dismissed Haley in an attempt to sell the product, "but then again, it is hard to tell that much of a difference with them, ain't it?"

"How much are you asking for," Dan rolled his eyes as he looked at the glove.

"Caps or barter," asked Haley as he eyes the Chinese assault rifle on Dan's back.

"Seems you have eyes for my rifle," commented Dan as he took it off his back and placed it on the table, "what sort of side arms do you have behind the counter?"

"I have a few pieces," said Haley, his smile could be seen behind his beard, "as for the rifle, I'd let the Stealth Boy go and throw in a three fifty – seven magnum with a full box of ammo, free of charge."

Dan noticed one handgun that was on the shelf behind the merchant in a wooden box and displayed like a relic, "and what is the story of that beautiful lady behind you?"

"Colt Single Action Army Revolver," Haley took the gun down with the cherry oak display case. "Nearly four hundred and twenty – five years old. The muzzle and chambers allow for three fifty – seven magnum, thirty – eight special, or twenty – two long rifle rounds with it if you can't get any original forty – five Colt calibers. It's balanced on a cherry oak handle with hand styled engravings. This firearm is truly a work of art and a piece of history all within your hands."

"But can it fire," asked Roe as he held the unloaded revolver in his hands, interested in it because it could take some many different rounds making it a very versatile machine.

"Yessiree, I fired it last week in a little competition with some swampfolks to win a bottle of Marguerite's swampland famous moonshine," confirmed Haley with a proud grin.

"I'll take it," said Roe as he pushed his Chinese assault rifle forward, and the Stealth Boy, too."

Haley chuckled, "oh no no no, far too expensive, not a fair trade."

Dan cocked his head to the side as he looked into Haley's eyes, "pristine Type ninety – three Chinese assault rifle with five magazines of five point fifty – six millimeter ammunition is worth nearly one thousand caps. Especially with the rarity of Chinese weapons out here, it's a fair trade, Haley."

"The Colt Peacemaker is an antique firearm with history and fame," countered the merchant firmly.

"Do you know that history?" Dan's question caused Haley to pause and then shake his head, Roe smiled before he continued, "so it is just a gun to me right now. This Colt is a tool that is to be used."

Haley grumbled with his arms crossed in his red jumpsuit. Roe took out a pouch of caps and counted out fifty on the counter. The black merchant pulled at his whiskers with three fingers. He put the Colt Peacemaker with the Stealth Boy glove while taking the five magazines of 5.56mm ammunition and the Chinese assault rifle. Dan then added another hundred caps from the pouch onto the counter, causing Haley to look up at him questioningly.

"What would those be for," asked the merchant.

"Information has its price as well. Now, Haley, I've asked many different people and even offered to pay them, but no one seems to be able to tell me where a certain location could be," Dan had already passed the Colt and Stealth Boy to Franklin as he continued to talk with the merchant.

"What 'certain location' is it that you are looking for," asked Haley as he spun one of the bottle caps.

"A place I've heard about where the swampfolk gather to pray in a dark ritual," Dan wetted his lips with his tongue, "a ritual that is led by a man named Blackhall."

Haley's smile faltered a little as he tapped the table twice with his middle finger. The BIOS Operative got the message and put down two hundred more caps to open the merchant's mouth, "thirty – five yards east of here is a burnt out house. Within that house, you'll find a cellar door. I don't know what's out there, nor do I care to know, I avoid that place as much as possible. There are bad vibes from that area, if you get my meaning."

"I understand," said Dan as he shook Haley's hand.

The merchant pulled him in close, "naturally, you didn't hear this information from me, just so we're clear."

"Aqua pura," confirmed the Operative as a bell clanged against the storm door to the long house.

Franklin and Zhao were already turned to the door, the newly purchased gear hidden in a rucksack on Franklin's back. At the door was an old man in a wheelchair with a sweater vest over an oxford shirt, and well-worn slacks. His wheelchair was pushed by a grotesque swampman with a larger than normal right arm. Boils and pustules covered the swampman's face and neck. The engorgement of the arm went up to the shoulder, neck, and half of the mutated man's face. Daniel didn't need to guess who the old man in the wheelchair was; he now came face to face with Obadiah Blackhall.

"My, my, my, what do we have here, Haley? New to town, I take it? Must be, as your faces are not familiar to me." His accent was as if he was chewing each word when he spoke, attempting to pronounce every syllable in a long drawl. "You wouldn't happen to be these mercenaries that I keep hearing about, would you?"

Dan smiled widely under his face mask, Blackhall played a good gambit. Roe picked up that Blackhall was still checking out this new group that was laid over in Point Lookout, though this was most likely a fishing expedition to gain more intelligence. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister?"

"Blackhall, Obadiah Blackhall, I assure you, the pleasure is all mine, Mister?" Blackhall offered a hand limply to the mercenary captain.

"Crazy Horse will do, Mister Blackhall," Dan squeezed the elderly man's limp appendage with two pumps before letting going.

"Indeed, Mister … Horse," Obadiah did not looked pleased. He rubbed his hand in a handkerchief before resting it on his leg again, disdain flashed on his face as he thought this mercenary a simple tribal. "Now what brings you out to my little neck of the woods? I do hope it is not on some fool's errand for that outsider, Varro. He's always been looking for help from mercenaries, but lacked sufficient coin to motivate them."

"To be honest, Mister Blackhall, I don't know much about that situation," Dan gave a little side nod to his men as he continued to stay calm and hold his emotions in. "My compatriots and I room at Varro's mission, right now, but he hasn't offered to pay me sufficiently for anything worthwhile. I hope you understand."

"I do quite understand, Mister Horse," the old man held his fingers to his mouth in pensive thought for a second. "What I don't particularly understand is how three of my boys the other day came to be quite dead while serving their duties. As a man with his ear to the ground, pardon the phrase, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, now would you?"

"Mister Blackhall, do you mean the three swampfolk that tried to attack me and my men that the bridge a few days past?" Roe took no pleasure in killing, but to he did take pleasure in tormenting the elderly man before him with the most civilized conversation he could muster. "Franklin, if three people jumped me with intent of bodily harm, do I got a right to shoot them down?"

"I do believe that is the law these days, Commander," Franklin referred to the legal codes passed in Grayditch and upheld by the Justices. "Legal term is righteous self-defense, Crazy Horse."

Dan cocked an eyebrow at the last comment before turning back to Blackhall. The old man was a curmudgeon. A line had been drawn between the two men during their first meeting. Blackhall leaned close to roe from his wheelchair. "Remember boy, this is Point Lookout, ain't no law here but my law." Dan just smiled and motioned with his hand for Franklin and Zhao to follow him out.

"God darn it, it STINKS down here!" Complained Tamara as she squeezed her right hand in the rechargeable Stealth Glove, "why aren't one of your fucks doing this?'

"Is the cheerleader afraid of messing up her hair," teased Rook over the communication unit. Dan camped outside of the swampfolk holy site with the ex-NFL star and Franklin. Bin, Da'an, and Zhao were in a wider parameter guarding them.

"Shut the fuck up," retorted Tamara as she gasped, "son of a bitch, there are rats down here!"

"Tamara, you can do this," encouraged Dan to make her focus on the task at hand. His choice of Tamara exploring the site was due to her petite size compared to the others.

"You come the fuck down here and do this, then!" She gasped again and Roe rolled his eyes.

"Another rat," he inquired.

"No, this is some fucked up shit, Dan," she informed through the radio, "I found a body. They cut the fucker open from groan to navel…and then left the knife still in him."

"Tamara, do not worry about the body, we just need you to place the last charge of the sequence. Do you have it ready?" Roe mouthed the words 'human sacrifice' to Franklin, who nodded in response.

"Setting it right now and syncing it to the other charges," informed Tamara as she placed the bomb under the sacrificial table.

"Alright, make your way back out." Dan switched on the communication unit to address them all, "team, we have two hours until this operation turns red hot. Secure the staging area around the Manor. We will proceed on my words only."

In the short time before the operation, Dan made his way to the Christian Mission. Tomorrow, he and his team would leave Point Lookout. Tonight, they would change the balance of power in Point Lookout. Father Marcus Varro was spending a late night in his office. Worry lines marked his face as he looked at Daniel Roe, unsure of the confidence this mercenary captain walked with. _What makes you so confidence, Mister Roe?_ The Father pondered briefly.

"Everything will happen in a couple of hours, Father Varro," Daniel sat down on a chair made of simple wood. He pulled his face mask down to pool around his neck. Roe's eyes flickered concern for a moment, "are your men in place?"

Varro rubbed the bridge of his nose, old age slowly encroaching on him and his earthly service to the Lord Almighty. "I have some working with the local gangs, informing them of the situation and advising the neighborhoods and merchants a like."

"But you will not outwardly take up arms to defend Pilgrim's Landing?" Roe was worried about Mara and her family in the upcoming paradigm shift.

"Sometimes the shepherd must raise his staff to ward off the wolves from the lambs, but right now the shepherd needs to guide the flock down the right path to protect its spirit," it wasn't scripture, but the meaning could be teased from both the Old and New Testament.

"Just make sure the local gangs don't start fights with one another," Dan played with a little figure on the desk of Father Varro.

"What is on your mind, Dan Roe?" Varro felt comfortable with people confiding in him, as was the sacrament of confession.

"I have fear, Father, fear that all won't go as well as planned," it was uncommon for Roe to have these thoughts, the words from Madam Panada floated through his mind at the time. "How do you become content, Father?"

"Many people have found their lives content in different areas or practices. I am fulfilled by spreading the word of the Lord and his only begotten son, Jesus Christ." Varro rubbed his goatee, pulling the pointed tip of his facial hair. "what fills you with warmth and joy, Dan Roe?"

Dan could only think of one person truly to make him feel different then his last year in the Brotherhood of Steel. He clasped his hand on Father Varro's shoulder and thanked the priest. Roe left the office and chapel to move quickly to Pilgrim's Landing. She would be there waiting for him, he knew. But she wasn't in the alleyway tonight. Pacing back and forth, Dan thought about tossing rocks at the windows, even though he didn't know where Mara's room was located. _Could she still be upset about the other day?_

He walked to the front door of the old general store and stared up at the two story building. Dan took a large breath before knocking on the door. Roe waited patiently, it was later at night and they probably were in bed already. There were loud footsteps he could hear through the door. A shade made of cloth fluttered on the door. Dan could not see who the person was, but he hoped it would be Mara.

"Dan, do you know how late it is? We leave early in the day tomorrow," Tarek ibn Khaled yawned as talked through the door. He yearned to return to the bed he and his wife shared, "what do you want, Dan?"

"I…uh…," Dan's voice faltered before he coughed, tried to gain some dignity by throwing his shoulder's back and sticking his chest out, "I wish to talk with you about Mara."

"Dan, it's late, let us talk about it tomorrow, or the next day," Tarek sighed, _why did I have to have daughters_, he thought to himself.

"Sir, if you just let me talk to Mara, I will make it quick. I promise you that, Tarek," Roe hated talking to the door.

Tarek ibn Khaled unlocked the door and stepped into the night air wearing a long cloth shirt that went down to his ankles. His face was scowling as he looked at Dan wearing fully geared combat armor. Dan lacked his assault rifle, having had traded it for the ancient single action revolver that now hung from his hip. On Dan's other hip was a standard ten millimeter semi-automatic pistol. Tarek crossed his arms, the loose sleeves pushed up showing a forearm tattoo of an anchor.

"You want to have words with me, okay, we'll have words," said Tarek as he chewed the inner wall of his cheek. "Know this, Dan; I will not wake up my family, especially Mara, to see you in this…crazed state."

Roe took in a deep breath as he looked Tarek ibn Khaled in the eyes. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative showed respect to the Eastern Shore first – mate of the _Majesty_ like he would a high ranking Paladin. "Sir, I have come for two reasons. One is to give your family my ten millimeter side arm and ammunition."

"My sons' have more than enough guns to protect the family and house," Tarek informed the Operative.

"Sir, with all due respect, I have seen our weapons. The twenty – two caliber rifles are only good for animals like mole rats." Dan undid the holster of his ten millimeter pistol, several magazines of ammunition, and handed it over. "The ten millimeter round will have enough stopping power in one round against a human, and I think you'll need it for the future."

"Are you divining the future now, Mister Roe?" Tarek didn't unfurl his arms to accept the gift from the mercenary captain.

"Look, Tarek, I have good reason to believe that things at Point Lookout will be turbulent for a while," Dan pushed the gun forward again but Tarek did not take it, yet again.

"The future is what you make of it, Dan," stated Tarek as he looked at the gun. It seemed to be in great condition, higher quality than typical mercenary weapons, which made Tarek suspicious. "What future do you plan to make of Point Lookout?"

"Things will change here, I promise that Tarek. But change sometimes needs an outside force to motivate into action." Dan knew he was speaking idly but his thoughts went back to the graves of swampfolk laid to rest at the Turtledove Brotherhood of Steel outpost.

"So you have made up your mind," Tarek unfurled his arms and took the weapon and ammo, "and the next point you wanted to bring up with me?"

"Yes, sir, that reason would be for me to ask your permission to write Mara," Dan kept eyes held with Tarek as he stepped forward and appraised Roe.

"Daniel Roe, mercenary captain, adventurer, and opportunist extraordinaire. Do not think I have not checked out you and your record since we docked. Your 'Immortals' have made an infamous name for yourself. At that battle in Grayditch was it the guards or Talon Company you were gunning after? You know what, don't answer that." There was no hatred in the Eastern Shore man's voice. It was the voice of a stern father protecting his daughter from a suitor he deemed unworthy. "Now, you tell me something is going to happen not just in Pilgrim's Landing, but all of Point Lookout the night before I leave on a trip no one has made in over twenty years. I should stay and protect my family, but I have come to a level of leadership on the _Majesty_ that requires me to be there.

"And you want to write my eldest daughter?" The question was more of an indignant reply as Tarek rubbed his tired eyes. "I'll let you write my daughter, my moon and stars, on one condition: do not fuck shit up in Point Lookout!"

"Sir, we already have this operation in motion," Roe made a weak feint but was Tarek easily moved through it.

"You don't think I know the Immortals have been asking around about the Blackhall family. Dan, they are your men. A week on a boat shows who the head honcho of a group is, and those ghouls of yours will bend over backwards for you." Tarek ibn Khaled's brown eyes bore into Roe's skull.

"The Blackhalls have too much power and Obadiah uses the swampfolk as weapons. It is not fair to the people of Point Lookout and the swampfolk," Roe held back his other justification of how the Blackhalls had tested the Brotherhood of Steel power by throwing body after body.

"If you ignite a war in Point Lookout, Daniel Roe, you will not be able to write Mara, nor ever approach her again without me present." Tarek's words were clear and formed on every consonant. "Think long and hard of the future you want."

Tarek ibn Khaled entered the house with the ten millimeter. Clicking of locks could be heard as the door was secured, both from Point Lookout and Daniel Roe. The mercenary captain shrugged his shoulders. He turned looking at the starry sky. Dan took out his Colt Peacemaker and checked that it was fully loaded. Mara's father had called her the moon and the stars. He hoped that she would be watching over him tonight as the moon and the stars did.

Daniel Roe was at the staging area on the hill overlooking Blackhall Manor in a small copse of trees. Rook held the detonator for the charges at the swampfolk holy site. He spun it in his hands like a baton. Dan kept a keen eye on the manor through his binoculars. Nightshift guards and early morning guards were communicating together as the shifts were changing. The mercenary team couldn't call it talking, really, as a lot of the noises made by the swampfolk were growls, grunts, and shrieks. Their language included pointing and chest thumping.

Timing had to be perfect, and with both guards on duty it would be flawless. Dan tapped Rook on the shoulder and the former football star hit a button on the baton detonator. Several miles away a large fireball went up into the air followed by plumes of smoke. It took several minutes but a runner came to Blackhall Manor. Nearly instantly, the two sets of guards ran off to the holy site. As the last overall clad swampfolk ran into the direction of the ritual site with his shoot gun, Dan stood up and motioned the team forward.

All seven members of the black operations team moved forward out of their staging area and down the hill. Everyone hid their faces with their signature black cloth, their armor all uniformed in black except for Roe in his gray combat armor. As they got closer to the Manor, the mercenaries separated into two groups to cover the entrances. Dan had Rook and Tamara, Franklin was with Bin, Da'an, and Zhao. They get to the door and held their positions. Dan nodded once to the door and Rook dropped down to a football stance. Roe clicked the communication device twice as a signal to the other team as Rook ran and shoulder slammed the door.

The nearly six hundred year old door frame shattered as the door fell into the manor's foyer. Rook was sprawled out on the door lying on his stomach. Dan and Tamara cleared the foyer and walked in to cover Rook. A little groggy and sore from the shoulder slam, Rook stood up and drew his shotgun.

"I still got it, coach," the ghoul said with a grin under his face mask.

The shinning Peacemaker glowed in Dan's hand as he nodded. They proceeded into the main room, which was a two story library. One swampfolk stood in front of a seated Obadiah Blackhall. He turned from Roe and his crew to the other team led by Franklin. The bore of the shotgun swiveled between the two and then stopped between them. Zhao had already lined up a shot and took out the swampman with a double tap to the head.

The shotgun discharged between the two groups as the towering swampman dropping down like a sack of mutated potatoes. Obadiah Blackhall was speckled in blood, brain matter, and skull fragments. All seven guns were now turned on the Blackhall. The old man sat there in his sweater vest, slacks, and swampman parts.

"You could have just knocked," quip Blackhall to the mercenaries.

"Throw your piece away, Blackhall," ordered Roe.

"Or what, are you going to ruin another sweater of mine?" The light cadence of Blackhall's words frustrated Roe.

"Hands up," ordered Franklin as he approached slowly and frisked the old man, one hand on his rifle. The ghoul's fingers worked quickly and found a small twenty – two caliber revolver and an oddly decorated knife, "you don't have anything sharp in your pockets, do you?"

"You're a former cop, aren't you? Will you seriously help these criminals? Last time I checked, breaking and entering was a crime," Blackhall complained but Franklin ignored it.

"Funny how you didn't mention murder," Franklin referenced the dead swampman at their feet. "Guess you don't care too much for your own kind."

"They are hardly my kind," Blackhall said with a sneer as Roe stepped forward with his Colt Single Action.

"Where is the book, Obadiah," Dan clicked back the hammer, he had yet to use the gun and half expected it to blow up in his hands.

"I have many books in my library," drawled the man from an ancient family, "most would be too complex for your understanding."

"Your words cannot hurt me, Obadiah," Dan lowered the gun and shot the old man in his leg. A bullet hole the side of a quarter could be seen in the slacks as red blood began to pool around the fresh wound. Blackhall screamed and held his leg as he lurched forward in the wheel chair. "However, bullets do hurt a lot."

"You're a fucking maniac!" Blackhall yelled out in shrilly as he put pressure to the wound. After he caught his breath he locked at Roe, "In the basement…on the podium."

Da'an went to go grab the book, "your power in Point Lookout has come to an end," the words were strong but Blackhall brushed them away with a hollow laugh.

"You think killing my guard and taking the Krivbeknih will change anything in Point Lookout?" Obadiah continued to laugh as he held his leg, "the Krivbeknih served as a catalyst for _my_ purposes. Is that too big of a word for you, Crazy Horse? The book means nothing without me or my family! We are the only ones that can read it to these decayed, backward, inbred, mutants."

A sick smile spread across the old man's face, "if you thought things were bad in Point Lookout before, Crazy Horse, than you have unleashed hell on these people. I will open a world of hurt from that fool Father Varro to those pirates in Pilgrim's Landing. Those Brotherhood militants will know the full wrath of the Blackhalls, and if you think I hadn't taken stock in your late night visits to that olive skinned whore, than think again."

Da'an returned with a book that looked like it was bound in human flesh. The feel of book along with the hollowed laugh of Obadiah Blackhall sent chills down Roe's back. Dan opened the Krivbeknih to show the parchment was written in a rusty brown color that looked like aged blood. The symbols were unknown to Dan, preventing him from reading the parchment. Roe closed the book and handed it to one of his team members. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative raised his Colt Peacemaker to Obadiah Blackhall's head.

"If that is the case," Dan pulled the trigger and a round hit Blackhall in the neck. Blood gushed and poured from Obadiah's neck as he tried to put pressure on it but it continued to bleed all over his sweater vest. Dan leaned in close to a dying Blackhall, "I was prepared to let you live, but you sealed your own fate, Obadiah. Can you die knowing that, old man?"

Obadiah Blackhall, the eldest member of the infamous Blackhall family of Point Lookout, gurgled blood and foam, "dunwiches," escaped his struggling vocal cords as he died in his wheel chair. The blood pooled around his wheel chair in a puddle as it dripped a steady beat.

"What did he say," asked Tamara lifted Blackhall's head up with the muzzle of her rifle.

"I think it was something about sandwiches," Dan's eye looked sideways to Franklin, _why did he think you were a cop?_

In the next seven hours, the swampfolk had found their religious site destroyed, their leader dead, and their holy text taken all-in-one rue filled swoop. Roe and his team helped the Christian Mission. Small skirmishes broke out all along the boundaries of Pilgrim's Landing. The sailors, mariners, and street gangs were able to protect their own with minimal causalities. Father Varro and the Christian Mission had stepped up to help the town through advising the neighborhoods, gangs, and setting up a neutral triage center. Pray services were also on the rise.

The Krivbeknih remained in Dan's rucksack, the words in it written in blood in a language he didn't understand. Marcus Varro did not want Blackhall's book left in Point Lookout in fear that it could lead to another incident. Father Varro passed Marcella's journal to Dan, hoping that an answer could be found in her written word. Marcella had mentioned to him in years past of a building that held the destruction of the book, but not the name of the place or its location. The docks of Point Lookout were crowded by sailors prepared to leave for their voyages on time or a little early to avoid the skirmishes around town. The crew of the _Majesty_ was working double time to load provisions and leave. Roe's ghoul mercenaries began to help out as the mercenary captain joined the ship's captain on the deck.

"Good day, Mister Roe," greeted Captain Greene, Tarek ibn Khaled by his side, "good day to leave port, at any rate."

"I'll be sad to leave Point Lookout," admitted Dan as Tarek looked him in the eyes. "Tarek, what can my men do to prepare to leave?"

"Your team is well versed now in what must be done," Tarek ibn Khaled walked from the side of his Captain to be amongst the crew. He leaned in close to whisper in Dan's ear, a scowl on his face. "Zahir killed three intruders with your pistol. What you have done, Roe, is unforgiveable. You are forbidden from writing to my daughter or ever seeing her again. I hope you can live with the choices you've made."

As Tarek walked to guide the crew of the _Majesty_ Dan stared at the skyline of Point Lookout. The famous lighthouse cast it's illumination through the fog to warn ships traveling the water. Roe thought about the last week and all that had happened. He turned and look to his team and thought of the future at Neptune's Fork. Madam Pananda's words came back to his mind, "there will be sadness deep in your heart, a pain that can never be numbed,… temper yourself in knowing that your soul and being will never know rest."


	7. Chambers' Wasteland

I do not own Fallout, the Fallout universe, nor any copyrighted or trademarked material. This work of writing is purely for personal enjoyment and an outlet for my creative juices. Please review.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 7.) Chambers' Wasteland

The wasteland proved to be an all-encompassing vastness with limited points of reference between the rocks. Operative Anna LaCroix of the Brotherhood of Steel had only been only to the Citadel, the D.C. Ruins, Grayditch, and Tenpenny Tower. Wandering around with Doc Hoff showed her a new view of the Capital Wasteland. Evergreen Mills had been a shock to her system, an actual raider city carved into the rock face. Vasteness now meant more to LaCroix as the nights allowed the stars to shine and all there seemed to be were rocks and more sky. Anna found the everlasting concept of the self and being easier to understand as she watched a cloud move quickly across the sky.

She was brought out of her thoughts as the wounded Regulator stirred in his intoxicated sleep. Anna had objected to Doc Hoff administering so many chems to the man. Not much could be done to speed up the recovery. Chambers' worst wound had occurred to his face due to a bird of prey. Clean gauze were hard to come by as all medical equipment had been raided from local hospitals or used in the response effort to the war that lasted for a brief time. Doc Hoff profited from such an adventure to the Germantown Police Headquarters and some exploration into Our Lady of Hope Hospital to make his stores of pre – War medicine. Pain killers did not heal broken bones, gunshot wounds, or half deformed faces. True recovery for Chambers' injuries would require an Auto-Doc. With his face half missing, the only thing protecting him was a thin layer of recycled gauze covered in blood and pus.

A small hard molding encased the arm and leg to immobilizing it as the brahmin pulled him along. The infamous brown duster had been removed and tucked under the Regulator's head. Doc Hoff had explained that the duster would attract raiders and other undesirable elements. Knight Captain Galeas had agreed. LaCroix had been concerned with the route as they would pass Fort Bannister and Paradise Falls, denizens of both settlements would give their right arms to kill a Regulator. Hoff's pack brahmin continued to trod forward, pulling the clumsily erected stretcher where the Regulator lay.

Chain link fences, sand bags, guard towers and the remnants of an office building denoted Fort Bannister. Actaeon moved in close to Knight Captain Galeas as they stood to the side of LaCroix. Doc Hoff did the talking with the Talon Company guards. In the open view of the tent encampment, Knight Captain Galeas noticed mustering drills. While not exactly like Paladin Gunny's program, the use of them surprised her and told Actaeon to observe quietly. LaCroix was told to watch the Regulator because if Talon Company found him it would mean their death along with his. Anna nodded and took to checking Chambers' bandages.

"Alright, so Talon Company has allowed us in," informed Doc Hoff as if the trade route wasn't guaranteed like it had been for the last few years. "You two," he indicated the two other mercenaries besides the Brotherhood Operatives, "come with me. You three guard the pack brahmin and the injured _mercenary_. Do not mess around with these rascals. They want everything for a deal, or special price, and will take it from you when you're not looking. Also, keep your noses out of their business. They will likely shoot you and Bess dead, then where will I be without my brahmin?"

They all nodded and Doc Hoff went with the two other mercenaries into the bunker to talk with the Talon Company Quartermaster. LaCroix applied the specially blended ointment that prevented infection to Chambers' face. The paste was noxious and cloudy white as it was lathered ont the missing portion of the Regulator's face from the torn off right ear, to under the right orbit, and his lower jawbone. Doc Hoff claimed it was his skill that allowed him to save Chambers' right eye, though Anna suspected that it was just talk. She watched Scribe Actaeon kick about some stones as Galeas shared some smokes with the Talon Company guards.

Wearing black combat armor with the white talon symbol of his mercenary affiliation, a man with disgusting scraggily hair walked up to Anna. He smelt like dung and gave off a humidity that clung to the insides of LaCroix's nostrils. Boils, pustules, and scars from the pox made him the least appealing man in the wasteland. He whistled at her, the Brotherhood of Steel Operative ignored him.

"Howss it goin', bee-utiful?" he said, his teeth bared in a smile to show them nearly rotted black and a wart on his upper lip to the left of center. "They call me Skaagz, but 'choo can call me daddy."

"I hardly think my father would approve, Skaagz," replied Anna, not trying to cause a fight.

"Choo don' need dat Dad when Skaagz daddy knows what 'choo need," his boasting and arrogance really upset LaCroix. He took a step closer to her and saw the injured man, "Lor' bee-uty, is dat chor old man?"

"He is not your business, nor am I," it was granted what Skaagz didn't know about Chambers was for the better in LaCroix's opinion.

"I'd lu-uh-ve to make choo my business, bee-utiful," replied Skaagz as he pulled out a side arm, holding it lazily to the side of his hip.

LaCroix's movement was so fluid that Skaagz barely knew his was missing his trigger from the second knuckle. There was no pain, just a slight pinch as the two bones and one joint wrapped in flesh flew off and hit the ground. Anna replaced the blade into her forearm holster, a bright shine hitting the Talon Company Second Scout in the face. Skaagz lifted the gun in confusion and pulled the trigger. His finger stump scrapped the metal, making him realize that he was missing a part of his body, blood beginning to flow more freely.

"CHOO BITCH," he yelled as he switched his sidearm to the other hand.

"Private, what the fuck do you think you are doing?" Sergeant Yao Guai barked, LaCroix hid her shock as she recognized the face of Operative Lolli Pop, as he stormed up to Skaagz a gun pointed to the private, "hand me that weapon now, or I will drop you!"

"The bitch cut my finger off, Sarge!" Skaagz waved the bleeding stump in the air, Pop the gun away from the disgusting Talon Company mercenary.

"Be happy that's all she cut off," replied Pop as he held the semiautomatic pistol to the ground, "hand forward, Private!"

Private Skaagz grudgingly held his injured hand forward. Pop shot two rounds into the dirt and then pulled back the slide to expose the heated muzzle. He pushed the metal to Skaagz skin, making it burn as he held both hand and gun in place. Burnt human flesh had a distinctive and unforgettable smell. After a few minutes, the wound was cauterized.

"Get back to formation, Private," ordered Pop as Skaagz held out his hand for the pistol. "You'll get it back when your deserve it, now get out of my sight!"

The private walked away as LaCroix looked at Lolli Pop, back from the dead, "well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

"Death didn't do me justice," replied Pop with a smile as he knelt down to examine the injured man.

"Seems to have cracked you from the shy shell you wrapped yourself in," pointed out Anna with a smile. "So it is Sergeant now?"

Pop chuckled as he stood up, "the title means I get to boss around piss-ants like Skaagz while in Talon Company. Commander Jabsco has even rechristened me Yao Guai, but I am still Operative Pop. Where did you find this Regulator?"

LaCroix stood up and looked at her fellow operative, "how did you know he was one?"

Pop's smile faded as he looked down at the drugged and injured man, "I'm the reason he is lying on that stretcher. I don't know who did that to his face though. Honestly."

A vulture had started to eat him by the time we arrived," LaCroix's smile had faded as well, but she knew not to talk about what happened. It was part of being an Operative, the secrets.

"It would have been better for him to have died out there," he said pulling out a pouch weighted down with caps. "Here; give this to him when he waked up, just don't mention it is from me."

"His medical needs are covered through Doc Hoff," informed LaCroix, the merchant had plans to increase his trade relationship with the Regulators. "But with half his face gone, I was thinking of a mask of some kind, for protection. His cheek and lips are completely gone on the right side, leaving his mouth fully exposed."

"Private Axel!" Bellowed Pop as Sergeant Yao Guai, a Talon Company mercenary ran up to them and stood at attention.

"Yes, Sarge?" The private held his back straight.

"Azel, go and fetch me a piece of metal half the size of that man's face. Make sure it is the cleanest piece of metal you can find." Pop was specific in his orders to the private. Axel returned several minutes later with a plate of steel produced from the Pitt. "Get this made into a mask for him, there is a metal work in Canterbury Commons I've heard about from the other mercenaries. I think he would be your best bet."

"Thank you for this," she indicated the metal, Anna laid it onto the injured Regulator's chest.

Private Axel was heading back to formation with Pop, as the Operative turned around for a second, "just don't tell him it was me to put him in this…shape."

"I promise, Sergeant Yao Guai," confirmed Anna, afraid that Axel could still hear them. She chewed her bottom lip before asking a last minute question. "Do you know anything about a bounty hunter named Sam Warrick?"

Pop shook his head, "not familiar to me at all. Perhaps some of the others would know. Shall I ask around for you?"

"No, no need, we'll be moving on in a few hours." Merchant caravans seldom stayed in one place too long, save for Canterbury Commons.

"If I find anything out, where should I address the courier?" Pop knew he was really out of connection with BIOS in his deep cover position. His handler was Star Paladin Cristiano Bael, but there was not direct connection between them. Instead, Roe's black operations team or Zimm's position in Silver's Den were his dead drops for parcels.

"I'll be away from the Alexandria for a while," LaCroix was being honest with her colleague. Yet she refused to release the full mission details as the less people to know, the better.

"You know where I am, and under which name to find me," confirmed Pop with a slight smile as he nodded to her.

"It's good to see you, you know, alive," Anna smiled as the newly made Talon Company Sergeant walked away to take control of his squad. LaCroix sighed as she stared at the man on the stretcher, _will life ever be the same for you?_ She thought as Doc Hoff walked out from the bunker with a Talon Company Quartermaster. There talking amiably as two of Hoff's mercenaries followed behind at a respectable distance. Doc Hoff wheeled and dealt like the best of them as a trader, and by the look of it, he was in his element.

Walking the trail the next day and the day after was tiring as LaCroix, Galeas, and Actaeon were not tribals used to long treks. The path north would be cutting through Everglow National Campground and Jalbert Brothers Waste Disposal. Doc Hoff recounted the history of the area, patch worked together from word of mouth and speculation. He talked about how some people had survived the Great War at Everglow National Campground. Families that survived split into two groups, on that moved north of Jalbert Brothers Waste Disposal and turned into ghouls. The others had wandered south and joined with those at Evergreen Mills, making them some of the original settlers of the raider city.

Rockbreaker's Last Gas was their hold over for the night. It was the site of a former Enclave outpost that had been abandoned after the destruction of Raven Rock. Defensive walls too heavy to move, tents that took too long to dismantle, and emptied crates that were hard to travel with without a vertibird were all that remained of the Enclave. Merchants from Canterbury Commons had collectively hired a retired mercenary to look after the rest spot. He lived in the shack overlooking the former gas station on the towering hill. His tasks were to ensure the well provided water and the food stocks were fresh. To that point, the caretaker did his duty and made sure to halt any raider or slaver with a .308 caliber round.

A campfire burnt bright in the middle of old pavement with cinder blocks set in a circle. Old Enclave tents still stood erect but the elements had put holes in the fabric to give only a minimal standard of shelter. Hoff's brahmin was held in a small pen around a rusted rocket ship that used to be the fueling site of pre – War cars. A purple lit sky still allowed for the old overpasses to be seen, along with the Roosevelt Academy. Anna was at the bed side of the Regulator named Chambers.

He had awakened from his medicated slumber. Pain too great for him to form thoughts flashed through his mind. A throbbing discomfort continued in his mind as the pain continued, especially on the right side of his face. When he had awoken, he grasped LaCroix's arm in a vice – like grip demanding relief. Chambers words were short and pained, as half his lips were missing along with his right cheek. Applications of morphine syringes that were over two hundred years old dulled the pain to a tolerable level even though the chemical potency had worn off.

"Food," growled out Chambers with a bit of a hiss, his eyes half open through heavy lids.

LaCroix nodded and took a nutrient bag filled with vitamins, minerals, and saline reading the needle for his good arm. Chambers fought with her halfheartedly, the effects of the morphine having taken hold even when not as potent. Anna tried to calm him down, but Chambers wore himself out as his body was already exhausted. The needle to the nutrient bag slipped into the Regulator's vein to apply nourishment. She held the bag as Doc Hoff had instructed her too, squeezing his shoulder with her free hand.

"It is okay, you are among friends," Anna said serenely as she squeezed the shoulder of his good arm. "The IV is providing you with all you need to heal and get better. We found you in a bad state. Do you remember what happened to you out there?" LaCroix already knew the answer but wanted to test his memory.

"Talon," he croaked out, his tongue sliding to the right of his torn open cheek and missing lips. Chambers could taste the coppery metal of blood and raw skin. LaCroix squeezed his shoulder to get him to calm down and focus away from the wound. Trying to lift his other arm to feel the right side of his face, the Regulator found his arm immobilized by a cast.

"You were shot in both your arm and leg," informed Anna as she soaked a rag and whipped his forehead. "Your arm will heal soon; the bullet went through and through. The on in your leg will take a little longer as the bullet is lodged in your femur. The bone has splintered and the fragments need to work their way out. It will take a while to fully heal."

"My…face," he growled, not used to opening his mouth too open.

"A bird of prey attacked you," Anna couldn't hide the sad look on her face. "It removed the right side of your face from your cheek, to your ear, to your jaw."

"No...Talon," anger flared in Chambers' eyes as he shifted uncomfortably.

"Talon Company did this to you," she asked confused.

"Took…ear," Wesson Chambers' voice was full of anger, a throbbing pain putting pressure in his head.

LaCroix eased him back down on the stretcher. Cooing him to a fitful rest as she injected some med – x into the nutrient bag. Addiction was a costly venture in the Capital Wasteland. It taxed both body and pouch. The toll it took on the spirit was always high and Chambers was dangerously close to being dependent on med – x, or morphine, or some other chem to survive. In the wasteland, one couldn't survive the habitual use of chems, the average life expectancy of a drug addled raider was twenty years.

The next stop for the caravan was Paradise Falls once they crossed the Potomac on the remaining overpasses. Old World corpses and long dead cars littered the crossings. Bones cracked and splintered under the feet of Doc Hoff's brahmin. LaCroix and Chambers had talked more, she attempted to read his body language as communication was lacking due to his injury. Likewise, Chambers illiteracy prevented him from communication through written word.

The Regulator duster that belonged to Wesson Chambers was locked in the saddle bag on the brahmin. Fear that if the slavers found a Regulator in their midst would mean their deaths at worst, or the seizing of the caravan's goods at the best. Rules of the Wasteland survived despite the speeches of politicians in Grayditch. Guilt by association was a fact of life and bullets had faster procedure than bureaucracy. No caravaners were allowed inside of Paradise Falls, most would not want to be there anyways. Doc Hoff stopped his brahmin named Bess outside of the gatekeeper's entrance. Grouse ordered his men to watch the good doctor as a runner was dispatched to collect Pronto and Cutter.

"Good day, Grouse, how is Eulogy today?" Doc Hoff greeted kindheartedly as he untied some of the holding packs.

"Looks like you got a full house, Hoffmeister," the muzzle of the slaver's assault rifle was pointed to the stretcher pulled by Bess, the good doctor's question completely ignored.

"One of my mercenaries, took the brunt of a deathclaw attack," lied Hoff as he shrugged, "damn thing took nearly half his face off. The others were able to put it down easily enough."

"Lucky fuck lived at least," Grouse's tone was the farthest thing from admiration or appreciation. "Deathclaw hands fetch a pretty cap. Interested in selling?"

"Would if I could," assured Doc Hoff as he unstrapped an old set of preserved claws to show the slaver. "Dukov has placed a high reward on these babies. Something about his new collection."

"Fuckin' Soviet drunk," griped Grouse as Cutter and Pronto came out, along with some slaves wearing baskets strapped to their backs and collars on their neck.

"Ah, the merchants of Paradise Falls, what can the good doctor do for you?" Hoff's mercenaries made a protective circle around the merchants and Bess looking out at the slavers.

"The usual," said Cutter. She always had a need for chems and nutrient packs for the slavers and slaves, respectively. Slavers used the chems to keep them up longer, father, and faster. To maintain the slave stock, Cutter supported them on nutrient packs.

"I see, well I have that right here," Doc Hoff knew his clientele and prepared all the goods he had for them in bundles.

"I'll be taking all your stock this," she said as she offered a large pouch of caps. The sales of several recent slaves had only occurred because she kept them healthy enough to turn a profit.

"Very good indeed," exclaimed the self-proclaimed doctor as he handed over a satchel with the entire amount of products her caps could buy. "And Mister Pronto, I haven't forgotten about you. Several clients from Friendship Heights to Fort Bannister have paid with weaponry and ammo."

"Do you have any more of those Chinese assault rifles," asked the guns merchant of Paradise Falls.

"No, but I do have Soviet imitation from Dukov," Doc Hoff unfurled a wrapped piece of blanket to show some AK 105s and the more recent Kalash 158, the last production model for the Automat Kalshnikova prior to the Great War.

"Better than nothing," Pronto called his slaves over to collect the unloaded guns. He separated the ammo from the guns out of a fear of a slave uprising, an irrational fear considering the ballistics collars.

"I also have some explosives," as Hoff tapped the satchel and then another on, "and combat armor."

Pronto began to search the satchel pulling out some grenades and clothing he could sell later. The two satchels of product Hoff had shown Pronto were quickly finished. He moved on to the third and Hoff didn't have time to stop him. It was common practice to have food clients to check all your wares to see what they wished to purchase. However, most caravaners didn't have a Regulator duster hidden in a satchel. Rustic brahmin leather coated in blood, dust, and the smell of gun powder was hard to miss. Pronto sure as hell didn't miss it.

"We have a problem, Grouse," Pronto flashed the duster and all the mercenaries and Doc Hoff froze. The slavers aimed their weapons at Doc Hoff. LaCroix, Galeas, and Actaeon looked to each other and followed the lead of the other mercenaries when they put their weapons down and arms up. "Think we need to have a chat with Eulogy."

The walled fortress that was Paradise Falls was impressive to the Brotherhood of Steel agents. It was nearly five times the size of the Citadel and housed more people, if you counted the slave pens. Pronto's shop and Cutter's Clinic were visible when they walked into the slaver den. Eulogy Jones' house was centered near the courtyard with a balcony. The Brotherhood of Steel Operatives felt like observers in the affair, even though they were counted as Hoff's mercenaries.

Eulogy Jones was not a tall man, but his presence made others feel shorter. Slavers, merchants, and mercenaries all became nervous. All those present except LaCroix, Galeas, and Actaeon cowered, shuffled feet, and posture before Eulogy's gaze. He took notice of the three mercenaries not in fear of him.

"How is it that you are before me today, Doc Hoff?" Eulogy Jones' smile was bright white as he doffed his pre – War hat, combing his hair back with his wide palm and long fingers. "Pronto and Grouse found a Regulator duster among the goods you offered. Care to explain?"

"I met some hunters on the way here, strange lot. Offered to sell me meat, but it wasn't the usual kind." LaCroix admired how quick the good doctor could lie, "well, I wasn't about to take any strange meat but for a good sale I bought the duster of a dead Regulator and some broken guns for parts."

Eulogy Jones half chuckled to himself as he turned to Knight Captain Galeas, "is this what truly happened?"

Galeas paused before answering, "yes."

Eulogy brushed his eyebrow with his pinky as he turned to a slaver with a Chinese assault rifle. The man wore combat armor, a hand-me-down from a long lost relative in the US military. His hair was a shortly cropped blonde Mohawk. "One on the far right," ordered Jones as he turned to watch Hoff. Forty raised his gun and fired two rounds into the head and jaw of one of Doc Hoff's mercenaries.

The other mercenary cowered as Doc Hoff screamed out. Blood, skull, and brain matter had made it onto the merchant's charcoal gray suit. Bess, the brahmin, stirred as she was upset at the loud noise. Anna LaCroix, Knight Captain Galeas, and Scribe Actaeon remained still. Eulogy turned back to them, his face pressed to Actaeon's as he removed the maroon chaperon. "Is that how it happened?" Asked the leader of the largest slaving operation in the Mid – Atlantic.

"No," answered Actaeon, his voice cold and forthcoming, "there were no hunters."

"See! This is truth," Jones smacked Actaeon on the side of his face lightly; "tell me what happened, merc."

"Some Regulators were attacked by Talon Company. Doc Hoff patched them up and took from the dead what he could as payment," answered Actaeon, half lies always worked better than out right fabrication.

"You, I can believe." Asserted Jones as some slavers started to take loot from the dead mercenary. "Tell me, are there any Regulators amongst you."

Actaeon smirked, his head tilted down as his eyes looked up into Jones', "if we had someone like that with us, they would've been killed at Fort Bannister."

"Good, good," said Eulogy as he turned to Forty, "escort them out, make sure they get on their way." Eulogy passed a pouch to forty, "and that is for their troubles."

Eulogy's man escorted them out of the fortress, on body less than when they had entered. Forty passed Hoff, who was still speckled in brain matter, a pouch of caps, "for your troubles," the slaver said as he walked away. Grouse was already back guarding at the gate, protecting the slavers. Hoff checked the pouch after he cleared his glasses off to see that it was enough to cover Pronto's purchases. They all began to walk the route that lad to Agatha's House, the last stop before Canterbury Commons as the stop to the old Temple of the Union had been supplanted.

Along the way, Hoff was able to clean himself up, his frustration marked by his insistent comments on reporting Eulogy to Ernest Roe. Galeas was walking with Operative LaCroix and Scribe Actaeon. She did something not common in her profession or position in the Brotherhood of Steel.

"Thank you for keeping your heads back there," the compliment was shocking for Anna to hear.

"I don't understand why we don't cut loose from this quake," voiced Actaeon as they walked in a close formation.

"We're following the same path, better to do it together than apart," LaCroix reasoned as she looked at Chambers still laid out on the stretcher.

"I don't like this crush you have on Half – Face," Actaeon scowled under his cowl, his finger on his trigger guard.

"Don't call him that," ordered LaCroix as she stared down the man as best she could. "I have no crush on Wesson Chambers. I just…he's like a wounded puppy."

"Great, now you expect Half – Face to wag his tail and do tricks for you." Actaeon had thought of shooting the man himself, several times, while they walked.

"I said not to call him that," LaCroix was fingering the hilt of her blade.

"Kids, do I need to separate you?" Knight Captain Galeas said as she walked between the two of them, "because when I separate things, they stay apart forever."

"Point taken," nodded Scribe Actaeon.

They moved in silence as they traversed the bleached rocks and ruins of the Old World. Galeas, Actaeon, and LaCroix had not seen the extent of the wasteland as the wind swept terrain gave way to rocks and deserts. Gravel crunched and slide under their boot heels. Two tracks were cut into the gravel and sand by the stretcher pulled by Bess. Chambers would cough on occasion, breaking the silence.

Anna kept next to Actaeon, a question probing her mind before it reached her lips, "how did you become so good at lying?"

Scribe Actaeon remained silent and thought long for a moment before he replied, "you need to believe in what you say," he said and then added, "the less you talk, the more people listen to your words."

Anna nodded her head and took the Scribe for his words and committed them to memory. She knew little of those she called comrades in arms as they walked alongside each other. Galeas was her commander, yet all she knew of the woman was that she was a Brotherhood of Steel lifer. Actaeon was a Scribe, one who had history with the resource of Harkness. He was the son of two life members of the Brotherhood of Steel, but chose a different path away from combat as a Scribe. One thing she was coming to realize was that both still saw her as a local and not a full member of their organization as she hadn't been born into the group.

Nothing could change that opinion of theirs that she knew of at the moment. At the top of the large rock there was a suspended bridge made of reclaimed timber and rope. The other mercenary hit the wooden posts to test the stability. He flashed an okay symbol with three fingers extended and a circle made by his index finger and thumb. Doc Hoff pointed to the stretcher and the mercenary unhooked it from Bess. Anna LaCroix and the mercenary lifted the heavy load that was Wesson Chambers. Bess was led forward by Doc Hoff as the two headed beast of burden tramped it's hooves on the wooden planks.

Anna and the mercenary waited as the good doctor crossed the rickety bridge with Bess They followed after Hoff and Bess made it to the other side, walking slowly as the bridge swayed. Actaeon and Galeas followed after, making the crossing easier than the brahmin or Chambers. After the bridge, they were able to see a large radio tower and a two story building built into the rock side. Remains of the ancient overpasses were visible on the skyline beyond the house and rocks.

Agatha Egglebrecht was an elderly widow who allowed the merchants to rest up at her place as long as they donated the necessities for her to survive. Her late husband was an old time caravaner and had built the place from scratch by himself with his bare hands as a retirement home. Agatha played the violin and ran a radio station that broadcasted the classical music from before the Great War. She recorded her music in two ways, on holotape and music sheets. She was a kindly old woman with an apron on and callouses on her fingers.

Fate had smiled upon her because she was seventy – eight years old and turning seventy – nine in the new year of 2280. She had attempted to gain the mastery of the violin like her ancestors before her. She smiled happily at Doc Hoff, frowning ever so slightly as she saw Chambers. She whispered into Hoff's ear, he answered back whispering in her ear the whole story. Agatha sighed and waved them into her house.

In the corner of the first floor were a crowded desk and some radio equipment. A stanchion with sheet music and the Soil Stradivarius rested near some recording equipment. They laid Wesson Chambers on a gurney in a small medical station Agatha had set up for the caravaners. A ruined couch, several armchairs, and a coffee table made up a living room. Agatha eased herself into an armchair, some dust blowing out around her dress. She had a well-trained mutt that only laid down when Agatha sat.

Doc Hoff patted the animal on the ears and neck, "he's new, what's his name?"

"Her name is Hilda, thought I call her Hildie sometimes," replied the old lady as she rubbed the dogs neck and head after Doc Hoff rested his rump on an armchair. Hildie was a mix of many dogs, but most prominently Border Collie and Alsatian. Anyone that knew Agatha, or the Egglebrecht family, well heard of her famous relative named Hilda who used to play on the Soil Stradivarius that Agatha now played.

"She has a beautiful coat," commented the wasteland doctor as he turned his attention to LaCroix, Galeas, Actaeon, and the other mercenary. "Where may my bodyguards rest for the night?"

"If they want to sleep in here, it isn't a problem. I won't have enough cots, though," Agatha answered politely. "Why are you travelling so heavily, Doctor Hoff?"

"The roads aren't what they used to be, especially in these days and age," he explained shortly, "we actually lost one of ours recently. Another, as you saw, was wounded a while back. Safety has a high price."

"Three Dog has been talking about things improving," Galaxy News Radio reached out into the northern parts of the wasteland like it had not before.

"It's true in some ways, but not in all. Thank the Lone Wanderer we don't need to worry about the Enclave. Super mutants still exist, as do raiders, and slavers." Hoff had no quibbles in expressing his political opinions, "but since the Enclave defeat, no one's handled the expansion of raiders and slavers. Well, except for how those Outcasts cleared out the Fairfax ruins. No survivors, from what I heard."

"Good for them, the only good raider is a dead one," commented the old lady, slapping the armchair to let out some dust. "Better topic though, Doctor Hoff, is what you would like me to play tonight. Gigue from Partita number Three? No, perhaps Grave from Sonata number Two? Tonight feels like, a good night for Dvorak's Allegro ma non troppo. What do you say?"

"Agatha, you know I am always partial to Zigeunerweisen," Doc Hoff smiled as the mercenaries took seats to listen to some live music. Anna LaCroix went to the gurney behind the medical screen. Wesson Chambers listened to the caressing of cat sinew in a fashion that was slow, majestic, and melancholic. It was a sound uncommon to his ear though not foreign to his soul. Harmony filled his head and lessoned the throbbing pain. LaCroix checked his forehead to see that the temperature was normal.

Anna sighed, happy that his fever had subsided. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative checked his pulse and found it slightly elevated, not uncommon for someone with such horrendous wounds. The scaring of his face had already started to become fleshy pink with new skin under blackened burns from the gunpowder. It would become like every burn wound: off color, glossy, and very painful looking. A heavy breath escaped her chest as she spoke softly.

"How do you feel, Wesson?" Asked Anna, her hand holding his with her thumb caressing the back of his palm as the bow moved across the stings that Agatha manipulated into magnificence.

"Hurts…less," he growled out softly, Chambers tongue was held tightly to the left side of his mouth. "Call me…Wes."

It pained her to see him struggle to talk, but she didn't want to stop him as he seemed to be more conscious of his disability, "okay, Wes." A faint smile was on her face.

"I know…I am…not that…good…looking, so…why are…you smiling?" The inflection was barely there in his voice as he labored to talk.

"I'm smiling, Wes, because you've survived the worst of your injuries," she answered, squeezing his hand in a sign of support. "We're also close to Regulator Headquarters."

"Where are…we?" Chambers asked, his eyes searching around for a sign of something to stir a memory.

"Agatha's House, in the hills west of Regulator Headquarters," replied LaCroix.

"She is a …good woman…very well…liked with…the Reg…ulators…Any word…on when…we'll get…there?" He squeezed her hand back, knowing full well that she was the reason he was alive at that point. The wasteland doctor patched him up, but she had been the one to pull him from the desert floor and away from death's door.

"In two nights' time," she answered, the week having been unusually long.

"I shall…recover…there," Wesson knew their time was close to an end, "what is…your name…my savior?"

"Anna," she replied with a cough at the end, a blush spread along her cheeks that made her black cheeks darker, "well, it's actually Annabelle, but no one has called me that since I was five years old. Not even my parents call me Annabelle anymore."

"Annabelle…it is a…very pretty…name…Too bad…you do…not hear…it often…May I…call you…Anna…Belle? Wesson Chambers owed a debt to this girl, one he would never be able to repay except with a lifelong friendship.

"Yes you may, Wes." LaCroix agreed, kissing his forehead like she would a sickly brother or child. "You should rest now and regain your strength."

"The music…helps," he admitted, referring to the pain that never subsided.

"I wanted to do something for you, Wes. I got some metal and there is a blacksmith in Canterbury Commons; and I was thinking of getting him to make a personal mask for you. You know, for helping protect your wound, Wes." Anna felt she had reverted to her five year old self when she removed the metal to show Wesson.

"People will…still point…and stare…this is…who I…am now," Chambers drawled, his hand indicating the half of his face that was missing. "I have…heard what…they call…me."

"You are not defined by the injuries you have," LaCroix reassured, her heart aching for this man because of his situation. Her role in the Brotherhood of Steel was to fulfill death contracts. That was her so-called 'wet work' training from Scribe Yearling and Knight Captain Galeas, but if she could save a life, perhaps it would balance the sheets. Elias had shown her that she was more than just a death bringer. Life was something she could enrich or create as well.

"Anna…Belle…I am…a Reg…ulator…we all…get nick…names for…what we've…done or…it's cause…we get…a scar or…a few," Chambers knew the facts of life, as a protector of the people, the Regulators were filled with legends and myths. They were calling him Half – Face, Wesson 'Half – Face' Chambers, just like others before him were called 'Lefty', 'One – Eye', or 'Toothless'. Wesson's thoughts were only on the men he lost and the pain he suffered at the hands of Talon Company. "My pur…pose now…is to go…after any…and all… Talon Com…pany merc…enaries…and to…string Gal…vin Cobb…by his…neck."

LaCroix didn't want to talk on the issue of Talon Company. She promised protection to Pop, and if Chambers chose to place his anger against Galvin Cobb, than Anna wouldn't dissuade him. As long as Pop wore the black combat armor with the insignia of Talon Company nothing would stop this man from killing him. Undercover missions were always risky, from being discovered by those you infiltrate to being killed by enemies of the group you infiltrate. Even if Anna warned Yearling and Bael of the danger Pop now faced in his post, her two head officers would not remove him.

No matter how she cared for this Regulator, Anna realized the fight between the Regulators and Talon Company would not change. Wesson's life was in the gun, just as much as hers was, but she was not like the Regulator. She had the Codex, the Brotherhood, and greater sense of identity that could only be described as nationalism or patriotism. She pitied the Regulators for lacking what guided her. Anna's many conversations with Elias had shown one thing, people can change but not groups. Chambers was a Regulator and through what happened to him, he would never see himself as more than a member of that group. Wesson Chambers didn't lose just half his face; he lost his identity to the wasteland.

They left Agatha's House the next morning a few hours after dawn. Doc Hoff took a detour from his normal path to the Regulator's Headquarter at the family ranch of Sonora Cruz. The Regulator guild master of the Capital Wasteland had her men waiting, the dust the caravan kicked up was spotted easily against the landscape. Thirty – five Regulators and probationary members all had their guns visible, some held in hand and others in holsters. The good doctor didn't betray any nerves or anxieties as he walked up to the Regulator farmstead.

"Doc Hoff of Canterbury Commons, to what do we owe this pleasure?" Sonora Cruz extended her hand to the merchant and gave it two firm pumps.

"Nearly a week ago we save this man's life and based on a letter in his duster, saw he was a Regulator," the mercenary and LaCroix unhooked the stretcher from Bess the brahmin. "We have taken care of him as best as possible. His name, he said, is Wesson Chambers."

Sonora Cruz took a second to soak in the sight of her wounded Regulator, "how are you feeling, Wesson?"

"I've been…better, Son…ora, but…I want to…get back at…Talon bad." He answered, as best as he could.

"You will, Chambers, you will," Sonora moved close to Doc Hoff, "thank you for taking care of him."

"Do you have medical facilities here to take care of him," Doc Hoff leaned in, away from LaCroix's ear shot, "proper medicine that is."

"No, but you are on your way to Canterbury Commons, no? How can I persuade you to continue the journey with my men?" Cruz pointed out five individuals from the collective thirty – five, which included probationary members.

"Covering my expenditure thus far would be more than agreeable," Doc Hoff's request was not unreasonable to the guild leader of the Regulators.

"Send a courier from Canterbury Commons with your expense sheet," Sonora wasn't large on haggling, but knew how to treat a merchant right.

"Who shall I have the honor of escorting my caravan into Canterbury Commons?" The good doctor asked as he watched the five people the Regulator leader had chosen.

Cruz pointed out the Regulators, "Ward, Oscar, Alvarado, and the Platt Twins," her voice was monotone.

Anna LaCroix looked over to one of the probationary member of the Regulators and found the one named Alvarado to have a familiar face. The dirt and grime through her off at first, but the unmoving left arm tied to his belt and chest confirmed him to be her fellow Operative. She smiled to Alvarado as she had with Pop. He caught the cue and smiled back. Wesson Chambers was handed over to the Platt Twins, who held him aloft. Hoff thought of using the payment option he was guaranteed by Cruz to expand into barter goods with other merchants while he was in Canterbury Commons to take care of Chambers. Regulators found it necessary for caps, gun parts, and ammo because of their job as bounty hunters. Trophies from kills, furs, and other miscellaneous items found on their contracts could net the good doctor a profit.

Travelling to Canterbury Commons, the group of eleven people and a pack brahmin were met with little hindrance from animals, raiders, and marauders. A large group attracted attention but were given a wide berth. LaCroix, Galeas, and Actaeon were near the back of the caravan. Brittany Ward, Oscar, and Doc Hoff were at the head of the caravan as the doctor's mercenary traveled with Bess, the Platt Twins, and Wesson Chambers. The Platt Twins were fraternal; one was male and the other female. Both of them wore dark brown hair, the male twin named Rudd Rudd preferred it cut short while his sister named Sam wore it around her chin and neck. This was one of the first times they left the safety of the Regulator ranch. It was there they were tasked with mending the iconic dusters of the Regulators. As probationary members with Juan Alvarado, they were the support staff of the bounty hunter lawmen.

Alvarado moved to the back of the caravan where the three Brotherhood Operatives slowly walked, "how are they treating you," asked his Knight Captain, apparently the one to know of his placement in the Regulators.

"Fairer than placement within other groups would be," replied the Hispanic kid from Rivet City. "I haven't had time to make formal report for the Springvale or Grayditch dead drops, but there is something happening that the Brotherhood of Steel needs to know about. People have gone missing. Wastelanders, Enclave outposts, and raider camps have been completely deserted of people. Literary, it is as if they have vanished into thin air."

"This is the wasteland, people just up and leave all the time," said Actaeon, noticing that Doc Hoff became interested with his travelers.

"There was no trace of that, no foot prints or brahmin prints. Hell, we've even still found food on the range," Alvarado looked and sounded troubled by the disappearing people of the wasteland. "I know there were reports done on the abandon Enclave outposts before I went to the Regulators, is there any way I can get that information?"

"Don't forget why you are in the Regulators, Operative," the last word from Galeas was hissed with such a venomous tone it stung Alvarado deeply.

"I know, Knight Captain," replied the Operative, showing respect to his commanding officer. "But something is happening out here in the wastes. I saw a community surviving with twenty odd families be reduced to nothing but empty shacks in three days."

"What community?" Actaeon asked because raider camps and satellite settlements were springing up on old super mutant sites, Enclave outposts and research sites.

"Dickerson, out of the ruined chapel in the north," informed the Operative, "first it was a few families, but what we found…nothing could put it to words."

Galeas pondered for a few seconds, looking beyond the horizon over Alvarado's shoulder, "good work, Operative," she said with finality. "It's a very good start," she tilted her head to the other Regulators, "make sure you follow the dead drop system, keep on prying, just don't blow your cover, as you did before."

"Never, Knight Captain," Alvarado nodded and walked back to his Regulator mentors.

"Were you going to tell us that Pop and Alvarado are alive," Anna asked, trying to keep her voice flat.

"They weren't," answered the Scribe as he left Galeas and LaCroix to join the Twins and the other mercenary.

As the Scribe moved forward to walk with the brahmin, one of the Regulators steeped back from the lead to have a chat with the Scribe Actaeon. Her hair was platinum blond, her skin a fair porcelain color, and her figure hidden well by the brown brahmin duster. Under the duster, Actaeon could see a ten millimeter submachine gun and a knife. He also noted the bolt action rifle on her back. When she opened her mouth, the accent was unfamiliar to him.

"Wotcher, merc," she said with a cocky smile on her face. He didn't respond right away, so she translated, "It means, hello."

"Yes," replied Actaeon, returning to his taciturn style of speech with strangers.

"The name's Brittany Ward," she offered her gloved hand to his. Actaeon looked at the hand like it was an odd appendage, after a long pause she withdrew, "have you been with Doc Hoff long?"

"No," answered the Scribe as he adjusted the chaperon.

"What circles do you travel with," prodded the Regulator, interested in this man.

"Around," deflected the Scribe as he shifted his sniper rifle on his back.

"Fancy weapon you have there, get any use out of it," Ward's fact gathering was not penetrating his tough exterior.

"Some," Actaeon smiled under the chaperon because his taciturn style had pissed off the Regulator.

"Talkative today, I see," her comment was flippant and sarcastic.

"Yup," laughed Actaeon, pulling his Chaperon to cover his mouth more.

"You got a problem mercenary?" Ward asked as an accusation, squaring her shoulders to the Brotherhood of Steel Scribe.

"Nah, do you Regulator?" The Scribe asked with a Cheshire smile on his face that was obscured by his maroon chaperon.

Ward paused. A smile flittered across her face. She was impressed by the balls this one mercenary had. She couldn't tell if it was self – confidence or his hubristic self – image. "Very well, never heard of you lot as mercenaries. So I was interested."

"We don't move much out of the D.C. Ruins," Actaeon dismissed as he checked the satchels of Bess the brahmin to make certain they were secured.

"Reily's Rangers tend to be set up really well in the D.C. Ruins," Ward was still fishing, and the Scribe could tell.

"Yes, they are," he replied calmly, "but there is more than enough room, and Rivet City Security sometimes hires mercenaries as extra protection for the aqua pura shipments." 

"Is that so?" Ward put together that statement and how Alvarado could have a conversation with them.

"At least the Brotherhood and Rivet City pay on time," shrugged the Scribe as he looked at Ward, "but we needed to get to Canterbury Commons anyway. Easiest and safest way is to hitch a ride with a caravan."

"What awaits you three in Canterbury Commons," the Regulator probed the mercenary on their intentions with the increasing township. The Commons had increased as a center of trade between the Independent City of Baltimore, the northeast land passage to Drayden and the Eastern Shore was open to them. Ernest Roe and his caravan friends insured their town had a place on the map. Mayor Roe decided to keep his town unaligned from security groups because of his own local law enforces and the tinker that brought machines back to life at the robot repair center that was once called Darren's Discounts.

Actaeon paused, knowing he couldn't say too much, "opportunity, Regulator Ward, opportunity."

The caravan's arrival in the main merchant circle was marked with shock because of its large size and how many Regulators were with Doc Hoff. Word of the Regulators in town spread quickly and soon Ernest Roe was next to the brown duster wearing men and women. Robots, merchants, and visitors moved about the circle staring at the Regulators and the caravan. Ward presented herself to the Mayor of Canterbury Commons.

"Ernest Roe, it is great to finally meet you," greeted the platinum blonde as she stretched out her gloved hand, "Regulator Brittany Ward."

"Welcome, welcome. It is always good to have Regulators in town," beamed the unofficial merchant king. "I see you also return Doc Hoff to us, thank you."

"Not really, no. The good doctor saved a colleague of ours and we need more medical attention. In your rebuilding, have you put up a medical center of some kind?" Ward's news shocked Roe and he thought for a second.

"No, we have not put one up yet. Doc Hoff takes care of all our medical needs in town," replied Uncle Roe, "housing has been our main issue."

"Is there a hotel or common room we can set up in? We need lodgings for our wounded and sleeping quarters for five of us," nearly everyone looked as Wesson stirred on the stretcher.

"At the corner, you will find the hotel. Do you need any other provisions while you are in town?" Uncle Roe asked as he remained welcoming.

"Thank you, Mayor Roe, but we are fine for right now with just the rooms." Ward motioned for the Regulators to follow her into the corner hotel mentioned by Ernest Roe.

As the glorified bounty hunters walked to the hotel, the Mayor of Canterbury Commons looked at the good doctor, "what is going on, Hoff?"

Roe noticed that Doc Hoff had picked up three new mercenaries and lost one from the Commons, "the routes are tougher than before, we found in an injured man and offered him help. Turns out he was a Regulator."

"Is that so," Uncle Roe turned to LaCroix, Galeas, and Acteon, "and you were extra hires, I presume?"

"Yes, but only to get here to Canterbury Commons," replied Galeas as she adjusted her rife, "we're looking for a bounty hunter named Samuel Warrick, heard he might be around town."

Roe shook his head and pointed to the hotel, "you'll find him there."

Galeas nodded and walked to the hotel. The Regulators had already entered and took claim to a few rooms. Scribe Actaeon decided it would be best to explore the merchant hub. Hoff went to his stall to exchange products, resupply the stocks, and deposit caps. Anna turned to Uncle Roe, the piece of metal in her single bag.

"I heard you have a metal smith in town," she asked curiously.

Roe nodded and pointed to the far street ruins that lead up to the old machinist workshop that had been taken over by Tinker Joe; "Weyland the Smith works out of there with our local boy, Nilsk."

Anna nodded, her feet heading in the direction of the old city ruins. Rubble that had been on the roadways for over two hundred years was cleared away in two years' time by several Mister Handys refurbished by Tinker Joe. Amongst the open ruins of a bombed out building stood a forge. A cloth tied to the remaining wall had finished goods lined in front of it on racks, tables, and shelves. The forge itself was left in the open air so that wouldn't start a large fire beyond the furnace. There were two furnaces. One was a closed system that could melt down metal whereas the other one was an open fire pit. Both furnaces had bellows attached to them. An injection of oxygen into either furnace would increase the temperature upwards to six thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Canterbury Commons had entered the Iron Age.

Prior to the Great War, the Resource Wars started in 2052 with the first armed conflict between the European Commonwealth and the Middle East. A series of conflicts and wars occurred that utilized as much fuel as either side sought to gain. The People's Republic of China invaded the United States of America in the state of Alaska for the use of oil. Fighting between the European Commonwealth and the Middle Eastern states tapered off when the oil fields dried up. Oil, coal, and nuclear energy were expended to reclaim Alaska from the Chinese Communist, diminishing their availability to the domestic areas of the United States, Mexico, and Canada. The battle for energy ended on October 23 in the two hours that the Great War took to start and end. Energy now came from many different sources such as renewable, nuclear, and ancient technology. These furnaces used wood, charcoal produced from enclosed slow burnt wood, and peat from Point Lookout.

Flammable fuel sources gave the furnaces the required heat, but risked fires. Banging of hammers could be heard clanging against metal before a hissing sound that died off quickly. The water was blacker than the night in the trough, which held tiny fragments of metal as it cooled the main piece being worked. Molds that looked like rocks cut in half with hollowed out sections were lined in a cubby holed shelf to the back of the forge. A pile of scrap metal lay off under the one section of the former office building that had a ceiling. Two dark anvils with well-worn marks on their surface that did not originate from Canterbury Commons sat in the middle between the furnaces and water trough. The man that worked the metal had broad shoulders with coiled muscles in his upper body that were easily seen because he wore no shirt. Instead, a thick brahmin leather apron covered his chest from sparks and metal shards.

The black smith turned to the young Operative, wiping the sweat from his bald brow, lifting the biker goggles that protected his eyes. The goggles resting firmly on the crown of his head showed the shocking difference between the dirt and grime on his uncovered skin and covered eyes. His voice had the same accent as the Regulatory named Brittany Ward, denoting a similar heritage.

"Wotcher, Lass," he greeted with a loud booming voice. A thinner man of similar dress kept on the bellows, fanning the flames of the furnaces. "Cut it Nillie, I can't hear shite with you blowin' like a madman!"

The man Ernest Roe called Nilsk, who was nicknamed Nillie by Weyland, left the bellows alone. Nilsk leaned against a cement column, arms crossed in front of his chest. Weyland the Smith turned back to Operative LaCroix. She played with the Latch of her satchel, popping the bone button in and out of the hole.

"Weyland the Smith?" She asked her hands on the metal in her satchel, which was still cool to the touch.

"Nah, I'm bleeding the Lone Wanderer," laughed Weyland as he gave a cheerful wink, "what shall it be, Lass? Daggers, an axe head, maybe some piping?"

"Wait, piping?" LaCroix was confused by the blacksmith's choice of made goods.

"Yes, pipes, s- bends, fittings, and valves," replied Weyland as a point of information. "Shower heads are popular too. Don't imagine why, seeing as how a tub is more relaxing. Which do you prefer, luv, baths or showers?"

"I can't place your accent, where are you from," the Operative was instructed to play close attention to facets and factors of wasteland life. "There was a Regulator I came into town with that talked like you do, Weyland."

The blacksmith chuckled, "lass, have you ever made it into the ICB, nah, not many have. There are many different peoples there, from tribes, gangs, cults, and downright buggers. A few generations ago, some ships left the other side of the ocean to seek greener pastures. My relatives, and others, created the settlement of Little England in the ICB. We talk the proper language, cousin. You know it as English, the language you butchered."

"Is this a touchy subject, I won't ask more," LaCroix backed off as Weyland rubbed the front of his apron.

"You haven't the faintest," rejoined the broad shouldered man, his thoughts on the tough life in the ICB, "well if isn't pipes, nor farm tools, what is it you want?"

"I need something made for a friend. It needs to cover half his face and be able to strap on easily and stay on. Like belts," she took out the piece of Pitt steel Pop had given her and handed it to Weyland. His thick fingers held the metal like a hallowed relic of the past.

"Do you know wot this is?" He asked while caressing the metal in reverence. "I mainly work in tin, aluminum, and junk steel that made mostly of rust. This steel is even better than the slag the Pitt made under their previous leader." Weyland grabbed a sword from the finished goods rack, it was six feet in length and he lifted it with ease. Presenting it to LaCroix by the hilt he held it to show the ornate hand carvings down the tang of the blade.

"It is…beautiful," she ran her hand up the cold steel, her finger tips tracing the decorative grooves. The design was curved and twisting lines that collapsed together and spread wide apart. "Is there much call for swords these days?"

"It is more of an ornament out here, but they are used by many in the ICB as the Baddies prevent any group from having guns. The Druids, those anti- tech fascists, use anything from a cudgel to a sword," Weyland's voice was harsh as he took the sword away, returning it to the storage rack.

"It is very beautiful work," reassured Anna, a smile at the corner of her lips. "I believe my friend would like you to make his new face as good-looking."

Weyland the Smith examined the piece of metal, "aye, I do believe I have an idea or two."

"You mentioned something about daggers," LaCroix rubbed her forearms.

"Yes, I've done work on many a blade. Won't touch a gun, but a blade is a mighty useful tool," suggested the smith as he crossed his arms, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkled. "Old habits I respect and up hold, even out of the ICB."

"Good think I wanted you to look at my knives," answered Anna as she showed her forearm sheaths, "sometimes, the hilt sticks. It is rather troublesome as it takes time away from my defense."

"Right, Lass, defense," muttered Weyland as he beckoned her closer to look at her forearm sheaths. Anna easily removed them and handed them to the blacksmith," give me a week for all of it. Payment upon delivery, say five hundred caps or equivalent in trade. What name shall I put the order under?"

Anna thought for a moment, smiling at herself, "Annabelle, my name is Annabelle."

Knight Captain Galeas was arguing with the hotel owner about giving information on which room a specific resident was in. She figured out quickly that Samuel Warrick was not idiot and had paid this man to keep his privacy. Even the mention of Ernest Roe didn't loosen the hotel manager's tongue. Power armor would be intimidating enough, but with what she wore now Galeas looked like an advanced mercenary in recon armor. _No respect_, she thought as Actaeon walked into the hotel lounge on the first floor. The Scribe noted his section leader looked extra frustrated.

"Prick has been stonewalling me on Warrick," she seethed, her hand rubbing the tiger guard of her rifle affectionately. Actaeon and Galeas both knew she would never shoot a local, too much pride and honor in her upbringing prevented that action.

Scribe Actaeon, on the other hand, was motivated by self – interest. He walked up calmly to the counter, getting behind to be with the hotel manager. The man pulled out a sawed – off shotgun and Actaeon deflected it with a savage motion of his fist. The Scribe held the hotel manager's wrist and bent it behind his back to immobilize him on the counter. With his free hand, Actaeon pushed the hotel manager's face into the counter, squeezing the man's skull.

"The lady asked a question," brought up Actaeon as he ground the manger's head into the counter.

"I can't feel…you're hurting me," said the manager.

"Where is Samuel Warrick," asked the Scribe as he twisted the arm behind the manager's back.

"Ow! OW! Room FOUR B! He's in room four b," the Scribe let go of the hotel manager. Panting on the ground, he yelled out to Actaeon and Galeas going up the stairs, "I'm going to get Dominic and Machete after you two!"

Galeas knocked on room 4B. Knight Captain and Scribe could hear scuffling behind the door. Actaeon took out his shotgun and kicked the door down, to see three men in the room. They were fighting, tussling, and rolling over each other as they punched, kicked, thrashed, and bit. The Knight Captain whistled loudly as she got the attention of the three men in the room.

"Which one of you is Samuel Warrick?" She asked to have two winded men point at a tanned middle aged man with blasted back blonde hair who lay on the floor.

He wore dark leather, "I'm Sam Warrick," he replied, dusting his front lapels of a leather jacket as he remained on the floor, turning his head to see Acteaon and Galeas with a large smile. "Good tah see yah, Hood!"

"Are we interrupting here," asked Galeas, her voice strong and harsh because she disapproved in the state these men behaved. One looked to be the same age as Owyn Lyons. Another had the scent of a slaver. And then there was Samuel Warrick, he smelt of harden leather, gunpowder, and sweat. Galeas held them all in scorn, her upper lip sneering.

"I am owed money from these two…confidence men and if they had my way I'd make them slaves," injected a younger man with salt and pepper hair that Galeas had pegged to be a slaver, though something seemed off about him; as if he were feral.

"Con man? Con man? These words from a Slaver and a bastard," replied the old man as he seethed with anger pointing to Samuel Warrick. "You! You put me in this situation!"

"If you and Rosie had just taken the original deal, I wouldn't have had to go this way," Warrick said calmly as Phineas grabbed him by the lapels.

Galeas and Actaeon cocked their weapons, "that's enough boys," said the Knight Captain as the slaver laughed.

"Dun worry, they won't kill each other," said the slaver as he sat down on the bed, rubbing his ankle.

Geleas turned her barrel to the raider of Evergreen Mills, "what did you do, slaver?"

"Strapped two ounces of semtex to each of their chests with heart monitors, radio frequencies, and my dead man's switch," answered the Slaver as he tapped his chest, "I die, they go boom. One of them dies, they both go boom. And if they get too far from me, they both go boom."

"How the fuck did you get that on them," asked Galeas as both Phineas and Warrick turned to her.

"He drugged us," they said in unison as they stopped fighting.

"Didn't think I'd let you two boys team up on me, did you?" The so – called Independent of Evergreen Mills turned to Knight Captain Galeas, "so it sounds like you need me if you need Sammy boy."

"Restrain him," ordered Galeas as the raider backed away.

"Nah uh uh," he warned as he pointed to a button on his chest, "automatic detonation switch."

"I'm in a real bind here, Hood," mumbled the independent bounty hunter, his back still on the ground.

"What the fuck did you do, Warrick," Actaeon asked.

"I'll tell you what this fuck did!" Phineas kicked Samuel Warrick in the side, with all his strength. "Sold me out to some raider filth!"

"Hey, mister oh-so-civilized, who caught your clean wrinkled ass? Independents like me are the hardest workers in the fucking wastes. We don't take handouts from nobody," roared the raider as he stared down the old man from Rosie's Republic. "What this fuck did was kill my whole crew to let that Republican asshole leave. The Foreman is going to want him for punishment."

Warrick got up on his knees, leaning his ass back on his boots as he still caught his breath, "fucking lackey," he growled out.

"Fuck you, Bounty Hunter!" The raider punched Sam in the mouth. Actaeon moved quickly and caught the slaver's arms in a full nelson.

"Everybody, calm the fuck down, now," ordered Galeas as she paced back and forth. There was a rap from the door frame. The Knight Captain turned to see it was the platinum blonde haired Regulator named Brittany Ward. Her hard grey eyes scanned the scene, sniffing her nose as she saw the raider. Pushing back her duster to show her submachine gun, Ward tilted her eyes down.

"Does there seem to be a problem here?" She asked, slowly.

"Damn straight," replied Phineas as the men all began to argue.

Ward beckoned Galeas to her as Actaeon still held the raider in a full nelson head lock, "tell me what's going on," ordered the Regulator.

"Typical wasteland justice bullshit," answered Galeas as Ward took out a piece of tobacco chew.

"I see your man has restrained Jarvis Ba in there. I have him wanted for several counts of murder, extortion, and slavery. I also see Samuel Warrick in there, wanted for disturbing the peace and murder. I'd gladly take one, or both, of them off your hands," offered the Regulator as she chewed the tobacco, spitting into the corner of the room.

"The one you call Jarvis Ba has slave explosives tied to the other men. If his heart stops, I lose Samuel Warrick," Galeas signaled where the bombs were on each of them.

"Jarvis is a bit of a tinkerer, he's modified other items too. Part of why he is useful to the Mills and dangerous to the rest of the wasteland." Ward knew she was reciting facts already listed in the man's bio at Regulatory HQ, but Galeas didn't know this man. "No way I can think of diffusing the bombs."

_The Brotherhood of Steel can always jam the radio frequency given time and the proper equipment_, thought the Knight Captain. "I need Warrick as a tracker. This would mean taking on the old man and the raider too. I don't think we can really handle all those extra people."

"I'd be with you all the way," informed Ward, not wanting to give up on the Jarvis Ba bounty.

"No, just no," the Knight Captain held her tongue from letting slip the search and rescue of Knight Jamie Bors and Operative Quintus Schieber.

"Do you see any other options," offered the Regulator as Galeas weighed her options.

"I need Warrick to find some people, what I don't need is three other hangers' on that will make us a target." Galeas did not want to compromise herself or expose the other Operatives as being Brotherhood of Steel members. Walking into the wilderness alone with a Regulator, a raider, a bounty hunter, and an old man did not appeal to her. She thought, _but what other choice do I have? _"After we find who I am looking for, we split up. I don't like working with regulators, and will only have to do it for a short time if so required."

Galeas and Ward had an agreement. Jarvis saw the Regulator duster, "Aw yah got to be shitting me!" He moaned as Ward punched him in the jaw sending him sprawled out on the floor from Actaeon's hands.

A dazed Jarvis tried to regain his footing as Brittany length of rope coiled under her duster to bind his hands behind his back, "Jarvis Ba, the people of the wasteland have put a pretty cap on your head."

"Fuck you, Reg," replied the Independent of Evergreen Mills, drool coming out of his bruised lower jaw.

"You are to be kept alive until brought to the Lincoln Memorial where you will be handed over to Hannibal Hamlin," she leaned in close to Jarvis, able to smell the sweat from his oily skin. "He asked for you to be brought in alive. My guess is he wants to kill you himself. But this mercenary here got you a reprieve for a few days because they need Warrick more than you."

"I'll make sure you all die before that," threatened the raider.

"Your crew is dead, you were captured, and you're under my charge. The Foreman will send no one, so take this remaining time and square yourself with your maker," Ward's words were terse as she squeezed the back of Ba's neck, "you'll be meeting him, soon enough."

"And what the fuck are we supposed to do," asked Phineas as he indicated the bomb strapped to his chest.

"We are to head north," informed Actaeon as he relaxed away from the group a little. "We need to go up north, beyond Rosie's Republic."

"Beyond the ICB," Brittany looked over with a cocked eye.

"We don't know," answered the Scribe as he put the gun away.

"Well, it's a good thing we met," affirmed the Regulator as she stood the bound Jarvis up on his feet.

"I guess I have no choice in the matter?" Warrick tapped his chest, "when do we start, Hood?"

"I refuse to go," Phineas stamped his foot down, looking at all the others. "No one, and I mean no one, can command me to go anywhere!"

"If you don't, the bomb will detonate against your chest," deadpanned Galeas as she rolled her eyes. "Stay if you want, but leave some caps out to compensate the sad son-of-a-bitch that will have to clean this place up."

"Well," Phineas paused as he looked at the Brotherhood of Steel Operatives, the Regulator, the Bounty Hunter, and the Independent from Evergreen Mills, "fuck my life!"

A/N: Thank you once again for reading. I hope you enjoyed this installment of Between Two Cities. A lot of my background information comes from The Vault at , I recommend their site for the collective lexicon of information, both canon and non-canon. I love to hear all feedback, praise, and criticism because it lets me know someone is reading what I write.

Please review.


	8. Regulator Woes

I do not own Fallout, nor do I have rights to the universe or its characters. This work is entirely fiction and any representation of people, living or dead, is not intended. Reviews are appreciated and requested, frequently. Enjoy.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 8.) Regulator Woes

Roosevelt Academy had once been a pristine private secondary school that educated the young minds of Washington, D.C.'s political and wealthiest families. Situated in the former state of Virginia, it proved to be a great school within distance to the former capital of the United States of America. Lost to the annals of history was whom in the Roosevelt family the academy had been named after. When the bombs fell on October 23rd, 2077, a large majority of history, math, English, and science ceased to exist in their previous forms. Faculty and students had rushed to the maintenance tunnels to avoid radiation, but the silent killer of the Great War got to them one – by – one.

Since then, the academy had been used by many factions. Recent occupants to the Roosevelt Academy had been the Super Mutants spawned from the Forced Evolutionary Virus samples of Vault 87. Worse still, was what the Regulators found in one of the maintenance tunnel substation rooms. Crammed into the room were several corpses that belonged to the Picards and the Flemmings from Dickerson. Regulators on the east coast did not have an intimate knowledge of the Pan-Immunity Project or FEV. Juan Alvarado, a Hispanic Rivet City citizen that was a deep – cover operative for the Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services, knew of FEV and how it affected the human body.

Outside in the sunken courtyard of the academy, Juan held wooden beads on a rope bond necklace with a wood crucifix known as a rosary. He rocked back and forth as he counted out on the beads, praying for the lost souls of those men, women, and children they had discovered. There was a giant difference between reading the effects of FEV and seeing the few examples of successful transformation, than seeing the defective and abortive tests subjects with his own eyes. Grotesque, misshapen, and engorged mutations occurred on the bodies of the Picards and Flemmings. Men, women, and children were all affected, rotting, and dissolving together in a noxious order in that maintenance tunnel room.

Brittany Ward kneeled in front of Juan Alvarado as Oscar prepared a Molotov cocktail from several different alcohols and a rag. She took off her brahmin skin gloves and tucked them into a pocket of her leather duster. Brit's boots creaked as she knelt. Her duster sprawled around her in a leather shroud. She reached slowly to raise Alvarado's face from staring off into space. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative pulled away from her touch.

Ward smacked him hard across the jaw and cheek, leaving a large red hand print on his tan skin as he starred defiantly in her eyes, "what the fuck does the Brotherhood have to do with that…that room in there? So help your God, do not lie to me, Alvarado!"

"What makes you think for a second the Brotherhood has anything to do with this," asked the Operative as he put the rosary around his neck, Ward's slap had hurt him but he didn't want her to see.

"I have never seen what my eyes just saw down in that room," the English accented woman replied as she held two fingers up and pointed in Juan's way. "You on the other hand, it struck a nerve from your past. Now you can tell me, or you can keep it to yourself. Pray to your God this type of shit has ended here, though."

Alvarado stared into Ward's eyes, "what are you going to do with the bodies?"

"No point to a proper funeral," she shook her head, the platinum blonde hair she possessed shined with the movement and sun. "Can't risk touching them, no point to bring them back, or even bury them. Oscar is fixing to burn them."

Juan nodded, Oscar having already headed back downstairs in the building with the Molotovs, "do we leave right away?"

"Anxious to get away from this place," commented the Regulator as she stood up, Alvarado remained silent, "we leave before dawn, to head back to those people in Dickerson and tell them what we saw here. Go make yourself useful froshie and make a campfire with some essentials."

Juan grumbled but retrieved the pack from the dead tree at the center of the courtyard. Sleep did not come to any of them. Their thoughts turned back to that room in the maintenance tunnel. Children's bodies in outrageous and demented forms that would scare the most harden raider. Abominations of humanity, truly the worst engineered experiments any of them had ever seen. Before the first rays could crest the broken Potomac River and skyline, the Regulators already had Roosevelt Academy at their backside.

A whole day for the journey, a total time of three days between when they first arrived at Dickerson and then made their way back, the Regulators came in view of the white wooden plank tower of the chapel community. Just as before, silence welcomed the Regulators as they approached. An uneasy silence that made Ward drew her weapon. Oscar looked at her, slowly removing his shotgun. Alvarado help hid pistol in the holster.

"Think this is wise? What about the sniper," the Operative inquired as they kept on walking forward.

"That sniper would have seen us at least five hundred yards away," replied Ward as they got closer to the chapel. "It's far too quiet."

"Come with me, Froshie," ordered Oscar as two began to move forward, Brit stayed in position with her bolt action rifle as she cleared the sight. Os looked at Juan, "take that damn pack off and use that shitty submachine gun we gave you."

Juan complied and followed Oscar to the chapel as Brit camped out in some rocks and dead trees. Alvarado led point. It was the dangerous position as he'd be shot at first. However, it was better to have Oscar backing up Juan than vice versa. The door to the chapel was wide open, the reinforced bar had been removed. Inside, Juan and Oscar searched each hovel and shack. There had been fifteen families at this chapel, yet not a single body, torn piece of cloth, or blood could be found. A struggle could be seen, a few shacks ripped to pieces.

Under their feet, shell casings scattered away with scratching sounds as they hit the floor. A fight had occurred, recently by the looks of it, and with no clear casualties. They put their guns away and searched every nook and cranny. Food, cold from being off the fire for so long, was found on plates uneaten. Supplies were untouched.

Os and Juan waved Brit over to investigate with them. Her mind made the connection between the houses of the Flemmings, Piccards, and now the whole town, "you tell me what the fuck is going on here, Froshie!"

"This shit is fucking serious," bemoaned the Brotherhood Operative as he looked between the two Regulators, "I don't have a fucking answer for you!"

"Bullshit, you know something," Shouted Ward. "This was a whole town! Fifteen families are gone! What secret are you trying to protect from your tin can days?"

"Fuck you, Ward," countered Alvarado as felt some latent pain near his shoulder, the nerves remembering the burning sensation of the plasma from only a few months previously. "I was tossed out by those fucks and you think I'm _protecting_ them? You have to be fucking kidding me! It's fucking super mutants, plain and fucking simple, just some big green and uglies looking to make some more of their own."

"What are you babbling on about with super mutants," the push of super mutants from the D.C. Ruins into the great wasteland had proven disastrous for the Regulators.

"Fuck, okay, it nothing secret," prefixed Juan as he indicated the empty chapel. "Super Mutants aren't breed, they are sterile creatures. To increase their numbers they need humans and vats of this green pre – War goo. But it…it just can't be this option."

"Green fucking goo?" Ward kicked a sheet of metal before she turned to Alvarado, "where is this green goo?"

"It was all destroyed," yelled Juan as he waved his arm up in frustration. "That's why it's impossible. The Brotherhood of Steel destroyed all the vats. The Super Mutants can't be making more of themselves, and they can't use regular people…or else they wind up like the Picards and Flemmings."

"Clearly not all of the green goo was destroyed," responded Ward.

"It is not just the green and uglies," commented Oscar as he rested his gun down, stock on the ground with the barrel pointing up. "Forget about those mutants killed at the Academy already? I'm not saying there is something or someone hunting mutties, but the Brotherhood of Steel and the Outcasts tend to leave their mark. Who else would have similar weaponry?"

"Are you suggesting what I think…," Alvarado stopped his out loud thought as Oscar nodded and Brit sighed.

"The entire Enclave had not been killed after your Brotherhood of Steel battled with them. For months we tracked outposts and squads, watching their movements as most moved out of the wasteland, skirted their tails, or simply disappeared," informed Oscar as he took out a stubby cigar, chewing the tobacco before lighting it. Grayish blue fumes rose in the sir, "I've killed a few Enclave officers. Their fingers paid for most essentials and good. I've seen them in a bit though."

"You'd prefer the Enclave to still be around?" Juan was flummoxed.

"They were a constant source of caps," shrugged Oscar, "but these teams, or team, they're not an untrained outpost or research team…they're something else."

Dickerson was dead. After constant attack from Super Mutants and slavers, the remains of a white chapel stood empty. Over fifteen families had been lost. The Regulators could only guess who claimed had claimed their souls. Out of respect, honor, and religiosity the Regulators held commanded them to leave notification that the site was dangerous list those that had been lost. Alvarado added an old pray to the paper, willing God to watch over those families formerly of Dickerson. The cloud of dust in the wake of the Regulators boots hung in the air as the wasteland reclaimed the chapel as animals already began to movie in, lured by the smell of rotten food. The fear of any former inhabitants removed from the minds of wasteland creatures as if humans had never even been settled there at all.

Heading back to Regulator Head Quarters, the small group passed ruins and newer campsites that had been abandoned or disassembled. The lack of tracks made Ward, Oscar, and Alvarado uneasy. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative found a holodisk at one of the sites, along with a cowl similar to the sniper from Dickerson. The holodisk remained hidden while the cowl was discussed among the three of them. It became apparent to the BIOS Operative that organic plant material was becoming available for the making of clothing. However, neither Oscar nor Brittany had an idea or interest in where it was coming from.

"This material is course," stated Oscar, the synthetic clothes that remained from the before the Great War were more smooth and soft, "reminds me of burlap."

"Can't be one of those old potato sacks; besides, it smells somewhat fresh," Ward felt the cloth to her cheek because she still donned her gloves.

"Do you think it's a coincidence that the sniper at Dickerson had a cowl like this," Alvarado questioned at a larger connection, in truth he was grasping at straws.

Brittany guessed as much and rolled her eyes, "froshie, not everything is connected in some large spider's web. Chasing patterns will drive you mad and get your partners killed."

"I'm sorry, I just thought that it could mean something. Maybe even be the same guy," replied Juan with a hopeful smile.

"Froshie, you need to know, the people from Dickerson are gone. Lost, taken, and abducted, or whichever. It all adds up to them being gone," Ward was not in the mood for a wild goose chase based on a piece of cloth, or an optimistic neophyte.

"Listen kid, don't take Brit's words too hard," whispered Oscar as he attempted to assuage Brit's negative tone. "It's a sad fact of life that people go missing in the wastes, sadden even that the groups of those missing are larger now. Think of the bright side though, our job is done and we'll be paid as soon as we arrive at HQ."

"Aren't we suppose to defend the people and uphold the good in the wasteland," asked the Operative.

Oscar smiled and shook his head, "we do all that, yes, but we still need to turn a cap to pay for the essentials."

"Why does it always have to be about the caps," Alvarado heaved a sigh of defeat.

War decided it was time to add in her two caps; "no, it's not about the money. I should never discourage you from doing a job right, Froshie. The reason we aren't going to go running off to the hills about that piece of cloth you found is because it'll be a dead end and make us look like fools."

"So not looking like fools is paramount to solving the case, and more so than looking to make a cap," shrugged Juan as he tucked the cowl away in his ruck sack. "Why do Regulators even exist, then?"

"It's about balance," answered Brit after a long pause.

Oscar nudged him in the ribs, "it's about the caps."

Brittany Ward looked at Oscar with a stone cold expression that detailed her dislike of his jovial comment, "the wasteland is all about balance. There are those that commit crimes and those that bring them to justice. Not this paper justice you have in Grayditch, a justice that is more primal than that. Some people just deserve to die and we're the ones that volunteer to pull the trigger. That's why we exist, to balance the natural scales of the wasteland."

"The legal system in Grayditch doesn't matter, even with Marshall Lawson there?" Juan asked as he rubbed where the straps of the supply bag cut into his skin, "the Grayditch Guardian said it was the end for us."

"Then you chose a piss poor time to join up, Frosh," laughed Brit as Oscar slapped the Operative on his right shoulder. "Froshie, don't believe all you've heard or read. If that was the way people truly acted, thn we'd be under the rule of the Enclave like docile sheep. You know who Marshall Lawson is, right?"

"Yes, he's the one that recommended me to this post," answered Alvarado as Oscar whistled.

"Lawbringer Lawson vouched for you?" Oscar seemed both surprised and impressed, "that man is one of the best. Broke up some cannibal raiders out near the old mountains and was the first Regulator to step foot in the ICB."

"What's the ICB?" Juan had never heard of a place with those three letters.

"Stands for Independent City of Baltimore," answered Brit as she walked forward from the two of them.

"What's wrong with Brit," Alvarado looked to Oscar as their team leader was walking quickly a head of them. "Did I say something bad?"

"No," answered the black Regulator, "it's just, well, Brit is from the ICB. She left it to become a Regulator. The whole issue is that Regulators were asked not to interfere with the politics of the ICB by the Bureau." Oscar made and oblong gash with his mouth trying to think of a way to describe the Bureau.

"Let's pretend I don't know anything about this Bureau," Juan didn't mean to be snarky but it came out that way to Oscar's ear.

"The Bureau is kind of a police group in the ICB," answered Oscar coldly, his tone unhappy with Juan and this group in the former city of Baltimore. "They try to keep order between the neighborhoods, gangs, and cults. Brit claims they are 'fascist arse-lickers,' though I don't really know what a fascist is. I reckon it's bad because of the way she talks about them."

"Does everyone hate this Bureau?" The question felt naïve the moment it left his lips.

"Brit's from a small community of immigrants in a neighborhood called Li'le England, on a peninsular with an ancient fort." Oscar realized that Alvarado had no way to reference where he was talking about, "you never been up north," Juan nodded to confirm the black Regulator's thoughts. "Anyway, Brit's kin came out and settled from a far off island. Frankly, I think she's blowing smoke about more land beyond the ocean, but that's just me. Well, you might be able to picture Li'le England more like a combination of Arefu and Big Town combined. The only difference from those other towns is that they don't have protection through robots, weapons, or the Family."

"Didn't you say the Bureau was the 'kind of police force'?" Alvarado inquired curiously.

"The local slang for the Bureau is 'Baddies,' because they forbid the private ownership of firearms," offered Oscar as a way to describe native hatred of the organization. "Knives, swords, and crossbows are fine. Anything that uses gun powder, microfusion cells, electron cells, or fuel canisters is considered a breach of law with the Bureau. Sometimes they allow permits, but those that gain guns without approval of the Bureau are let go from their protection and treated like criminals. The ICB has some real bad gangs, worse than raiders even."

"That's just fucked up," remarked the Brotherhood of Steel Operative, "so what's Li'le England to the Bureau, protectorate or criminal?"

"They were a protectorate of the Bureau," said Oscar with a frown, "until they bought guns from Lawbringer Lawson. Through ward would be the best source to tell you the rest."

"Why can't you tell me, Os," pressured Alvarado.

"It ain't my place to tell you," answered Oscar, as he took out his canteen, "Brit is the only one with the right to tell you."

Alvarado walked ahead to find Brittany Ward; when he did, the Brotherhood of Steel Operative walked with her, "so I've been hearing some about the ICB."

"If you're interested, I got a bridge I can sell you," quipped the Li'le Englander.

"Why would I want to buy a bridge," asked the Operative as Brittany slapped a hand to her face and pulled her fair down against her leather glove.

"Ne'ermind, Froshie, ne'er you mind," she replied before looking back at him, "I expect you have questions."

"I'd like to know what happened to Li'le England with the Bureau," the Operative asked, fumbling for his words.

"You mean after the Baddies arrested my parents for buying weapons," she offered the statement loaded with information.

"Your parents bought weapons from Lawson," the question was more of a statement of shock.

"Yes, and to make a long story short, they were arrested and imprisoned by the Baddies," she paused for a second, taking that time to bit some brahmin jerk. "The prison was under staffed and one of the gangs tried to free one of their leaders. The Baddies couldn't have that, so decided to execute every prisoner there, my parents included, as traitors, gang members, and murderers. They hung the bodies from the barred windows and kept them there for weeks, both as a warning and as punishment. When they declared Li'le England an enemy combatant of the Bureau, I left with Lawbringer Lawson to become a Regulator."

"That's just…horrible," Juan gave his condolences to the Regulator.

"It was over twenty years ago and I was eight years old," shrugged the Li'le Englander. "I've come to accept it as part of my life."

"I'm still sorry, Brit," apologized Juan.

"Froshie, shut your mouth and use your eyes," Brit pointed out the horizon.

"I see smoke coming off to the right of the Power Station, maybe a hundred yards to the right," answered Juan as he blocked the sun with his hand over his eyes.

"Minefield," Ward gave the place a name, "haven't had tenants since Ol' Arkansas, last I heard. The slavers got their revenge and put a slave collar on his aged neck."

"What did Arkansas do to the slavers," Juan didn't know that much wasteland history.

"Paradise Falls raided the town, known as Ridgefield way – way back, when Ol' Arkansas was a boy. They captured many people but Arkansas was able to hide." Oscar had joined them and took out his binoculars with haste to look at the remains of Minefield. Well, Arkansas remade Ridgefield into Minefield and over the years made rumors pass that the Town was reforming. Of course that piqued the interest of Eulogy Jones."

"He sent a whole contingent of slavers to Minefield," Oscar continued the story after Ward paused, "some say it was a hundred slavers."

"I heard it was fifty," counted Ward.

"A hundred or fifty, either way you tell it, that old man had balls the size of boulders," Oscar sounded in awe as he mentioned Arkansas.

"How did one man kill so many slavers," _it couldn't have been overwhelming numbers, perhaps great tactics_, thought Juan.

"Best way to know is to see for ourselves," shrugged Oscar as he got up and proceeded down into the town.

Brittany Ward held her tongue from asking Oscar the obvious question of relative safety. A large billboard next to a cliff over looked the standing houses situated amongst the blown out ruins and neighborhood playground. Burnt cars, broken rubble, and black scorch marks were all that remained of the mines and explosions used to kill fifty to a hundred slavers. Smoke was coming from numerous points in the large concrete structure between the suburban style houses. The first person they saw was a little boy aged no older than five. He paused to stare at the Regulators in the middle of the rubble.

Brittany Ward didn't put away her weapon. Instead she just held it by the grip, her other hand held a finger to her lips as she made a less than audible 'shush'. Ward continued to walk forward, as did Oscar and Juan. They had closed in two feet as some rubble caused Alvarado to trip. Shuffling as he maintained his footing, the noise distracting Brit and Oscar. The kid too that moment to run off, dashing like a jack rabbit, the five year old took off at high speed and agility, darting in and out of rubble, old fencing, and blown up cars.

"Shit! Follow him," yelled Ward as they took off running after the child.

Juan was behind trying to gain his footing better as he ran. Oscar ducked into a blown out car with scorch marks to cut through to the other side. Brit took to bounding over the rubble and cars, trying hard to catch up with the kid. She could see his blue shirt and blonde hair just before he turned a corner. Three minutes into the chase, the kid began to yell out in a high pitched voice.

"Pa! Pa! Stranger Danger!" The five year old turned into the yard of an ancient suburban home where a man stood in coveralls with a shotgun, "Stranger danger," repeated the kid as he hid behind his father's legs and pointed to Brit, Oscar, and Juan as they emerged from the rubble and wreckage.

Greetings by a double barrel shotgun were never fun. To have three other scatterguns pointed at the Regulators were exponentially worse. It would have been better if they yelled, but no words were exchanged except from the five year old. Ward broke the uncomfortable silence.

"May we talk to your, uhm, head man?" She asked, pointing to her head in case they didn't know proper English too well.

The father to the little boy spat a wad of brown phlegm into the pavement before he drooled out, "go'on, an' git Luther, boy."

The son obediently took his father's order and ran off into one of the houses. A few minutes later, he led the way for another man that wore similar clothes to the squatters and one that donned a Regulator duster. The Regulator was older than Oscar and Brit, one of the old guard like Marshall Lawson. He was a white man with a greased tipped mustache that curled up at both ends. Bark bags hung under his bloodshot eyes and hanging jowls made him look like a basset hound.

"Ward, Oscar, what the fuck are you doing here," asked the Regulator as he twisted the reddish hair of his mustache.

The homestead leader put a hand on the Regulator's chest, "these strangers are your kinfolk?"

"No," answered the Regulator as his face got red, "well, yes. They are part of my group, I'm sorry they have intruded on your kinfolk's homestead."

"We are terribly sorry Regulator Norton," Brit said as she nodded to Oscar and Juan, "we were on our way back to HQ when we saw the smoke."

"Our smoke huts are visible from far away?" The homestead leader named Luther asked as he turned to Regulator Norton, "this is not good. We need preserved meat while waiting for the crops."

"It will be a bad season," replied another homesteader.

"Marvin, take your boy and douse the flames," ordered Luther as he leaned in to talk with the Regulator in a hushed conversation, with a whistle the other squatters joined and then walked to the parameter in a hurried pace.

"Fucking hell, Brit," said Norton as he tweaked his mustache again.

"Sir, we saw the smoke on our way back from Dickerson," Regulator Norton was about to ask when Brit shook her head.

"The rumors were true; Sonora feared you went missing as well. Biggest community to date to go missing," Norton's voice was low and monotone.

"Norton, who are these squatters," asked Oscar as the Regulators talked in a circle.

"Watch it Os, Sonora Cruz has made a protection deal with these homesteaders." Informed the Regulator as he pointed out the houses on the cul – du – sac, "these families secured the four houses here and built a parameter for detection. Came from the Appalachians near the Pitt, the heard the rumors that were spread by Arkansas and decided to move on down. Not really what they expected."

"You said the Guild Master has made a deal," Brit brushed her hair back and tightened her gloves.

"We're going to have a Regulator out here to protect against slavers and raiders," Norton indicated himself as the assigned Regulator for the time being. "These good ol' boys and gals make some great smoked meats and moonshine. We'll have supplies on a seasonal basis for food and drink," Norton coughed and covered his mouth.

"Do they know about this place's history?" Juan asked and Norton's eyes narrowed as he recovered from a cough.

"Brit, tell your fucking Frosh to mind his tongue," warned the senior Regulator.

"He heard you," Ward replied as Alvarado held his mouth shut tight. "Is there any other news to know before we walk into HQ with our bad news?"

"Damn straight there is a big commotion out of Grayditch. The Mayor there, some guy named Fleet, talked about some secret meetings he, Tenpenny, Megaton, Rivet City, and the raider town in the north ruins. Gist of it was they couldn't agree on trade or working together, not unexpected considering the company. That man then opened it for all other communities, townships, villages, or nomadic tribes to send representatives." Norton shook his head with a frown, "Marshall Lawson reported that couriers were sent out to Evergreen Mills and Paradise Falls. Sonora and Lawbringer have been sending couriers back and forth daily, something is happening."

"Was Fleet talking about full on unification," Ward used a word unfamiliar to Alvarado.

"A lot of words have been thrown around. Some people have been writing to GNR or passing messages through couriers, and the Grayditch Guardian has been reporting nonstop. Wasters have been showing how nuts they are, others seem to show the circles that are growing outside of any oversight," the Regulator twisted his whiskers. "It's been a wildfire of rumors and gossip since Fleet's speech of force."

"Has the Brotherhood been mentioned in anything," Juan asked curiously.

Norton smiled widely, "from what we heard, they were shocked to the news as we were. Fleet has probably included them since. Lawbringer has been instrumental to this Fleet."

Juan thought to himself, pondering on the news of a Capital Congress, on why the Regulators and Brotherhood seem to be excluded from the original talks. Now Minefield made more sense, official Regulator protection for a season payment instead of one time jobs would make them less of wandering lawmen and more sedentary. Minefield was an experiment, which if it proved successful could spell a whole new way of life for the Regulators. Big changes were making their way to the Capital Wasteland.

Minefield was secured with wire traps that shook tin cans tied together. Luther, the leader of the homesteaders, had returned to confer with Regulator Norton. The three other Regulators decided to continue on towards Regulator Head Quarters. A brahmin ranch couldn't have appealed to them more, at that moment. Oscar patted the two snouted animal that was closest to the wooden fence, it blinked its sickly brown eyes up at him. Two Regulators sat on the main house's porch.

"Good day, Brit, Os, probie," greeted one of the Regulators as he tipped his wide brimmed hat in their direction.

"Hatcher, what's the good word," Oscar asked as he put on boot up on the porch, leaning on the bannister.

"Cruz is in," replied Regulator Hatcher as he shifted the brim of his hat over his eyes, "but she riled awfully good."

"We've heard about Grayditch," confirmed Brittany Ward.

"Chambers' team has been found dead, 'cept for the good ol' bastard Wesson, he'self." Hatcher glowered, the pack of chewing tobacco visible on his lower jaw, "Talon Company."

"Fucking Talons," cursed Oscar as Hatcher grunted in agreement, spitting a dark brown wad on the porch floor, which was already well stained.

"Fuck Cobb," agreed Hatcher, the name caught Juan's ears.

"Cobb, as in that fuck from Grayditch," asked the Hispanic teen and secret Brotherhood Operative.

"They say Galvin dun killed them, though others bet it was his lackey escort," nodded Hatcher as he spit another wad on the porch. "That's the rumors, anyways."

"Fuck Talon and that arse-licker, Cobb," said Brit as she opened the door to the ranch house, "c'mon, we need to report to Cruz."

Regulator HQ had not changed in comparison to the major events that had occurred while Ward, Oscar, and Alvarado had made their way to Dickerson. Two new plaques hung on a wall with names etched into them for the fallen Regulators of Wesson Chambers' squad. The wall was covered in other names of lost Regulators. Though there had been so many, that the plaques had to be removed after a few years to make way for more names, more people, more dead Regulators. The only definitive list was kept in a ledge by Sonora Cruz, one that also listed the total number of fingers claimed by each Regulator. If there were such a time as a holiday left in the world after the Great War, then the Regulators had their own Memorial Day. A holiday they made, in reflection of previous holidays from the former United States, to revere and remember the fallen. Two new names were added to the list and to be recited on that honored day.

Sonora Cruz, leader of the Capital Wasteland Regulators, sat at her desk, duster hanging on a wall peg with her hat. Behind her were two large safes with combination dials. She looked from her map as she removed a marker from where Dickerson was situated in the former State of Maryland. She looked as only a leader could, cool and calm in her eyes while the happenings around her would have overwhelmed a regular person.

"So the news from Dickerson is true," Cruz comment was a statement of fact more so than a question.

"Yes, we arrived on time and were able to find the deformed corpses of the missing families at Roosevelt Academy, returned to find the chapel completely evacuated," Brit informed her commander.

"Deformed corpses?" Cruz asked as she marked the academy on the map.

"Super mutants," replied Brit, omitting the fact that there were signs of a third party out there killing the big green and uglies. "We returned to Dickerson three days after we had left it. The town was completely empty. No trials or movement to suggest where the people had gone; it was as if they had vanished into thin air."

"Their suppers were even left on the tables and pots boiling on fire pits," added Oscar, his hands on the front of his pants over the pockets with his thumbs tucked in. "Ma'am, the food was nearly spoiled when we returned. Something happened to those people after we stopped by to get information."

"Fuck," sighed out loud the guild master as her bottom teeth scrapped her upper lips. "Someone, or thing, was watching that town. Did you post a notice?"

"Yes, Ma'am," replied Oscar and Brittany together.

"'Scuse me, ma'am," interjected Alvarado as Ward glared daggers at him.

"I am terribly sorry about this, Ma'am," Brit shifted her look between Sonora Cruz and Juan Alvarado, "the probationary member has yet to learn when to speak and when to listen."

"He is still learning," confirmed Cruz as she turned to Juan, "but perhaps some outside perspective can help us. What do you wish to say, Probationary Regulator Alvarado?"

"Guild Master Cruz, the super mutants at Roosevelt Academy were already dead when we arrived," Juan paused, seeing that Cruz was not impressed with his information. "The bodies were arranged like a corded pile of wood and set ablaze. Those that killed these super mutants did so with military precision seen in the Brotherhood of Steel, Outcasts, or the Enclave. No insignias were left or calling cards as to whom killed these mutties. This leads me to suspect the Enclave, or some organized remnant from the Raven Rock complex is out in the wasteland."

Sonora Cruz pondered for a moment before she smiled and laughed, "you can take the Knight out of the Brotherhood, but can never take the Brotherhood out of the Knight, eh? Youhave a gift, Alvarado, but I think you're going to waste it here. Have you ever thought about becoming a storyteller? You'll be fine to do it with only one arm."

"With respect, Quild Master Cruz, you need only one arm to draw a gun and be a Regulator," deadpanned Juan as Brit hit him upside the head.

"With little respect, Probationary Regulator Alvarado," her voice was a fiery growl as she pointed to his holstered handgun, "that is your last resort. This," and with that she pointed to his head, "is your first and best weapon out there. If you don't use your head than you will wind up dead. You, your partners, the people around you will all die.

"Now that point is out there for you to stew in, let me add this to the mix. When you take leaps and bounds in your ideas, you are not using your brain." Sonora Cruz paused and breathed slowly, trying to regain her composure, "you may see how things can be connected. It is not always true. A bloatfly could fart outside of Vault Hundred and One and cause a projectile to move faster than intended as it enters your over working brain in the court yard of Roosevelt Academy. It won't matter in the end what speed that bullet entered your brain, because you'll be fucking dead. Just more blood to moisten the sand.

"Put this notion behind you, Alvarado, and leave the work to Ward, Oscar, and I. You get there some day," she looked Alvarado in the eyes searching for understanding, "or else you'll might want to look into telling stories at local pubs."

"Thank you, Ma'am, I understand," nodded Alvarado.

Cruz turned around and knelt down to a safe. Flicking the dial, she undid one and took out two items. A large leather pouch and a leather ledger wrapped in sinew string with ancient paper inside. She wrote something down in the old ledger and paid out the caps. Juan's pile was noticeably less than the others. Cruz gave him his paltry amount by handing it to him in his one good hand. She held her hand on the pouch in his hand.

"This is the first time you've ever been paid by us. I am going to give you some advice, don't spend it all. Some day you might want to retire or have enough saved up to cash in on a favor." Sonora Cruz let go of his hand, the caps felt heavy than before to Alvarado.

Outside of the office, Juan joined the other probationary members. The fraternal twins were mending dusters as the old probationary cobbler was untacking boots. They all looked up at him as he entered. The twins had stars in their eyes. Alvarado dropped his sack and caps, slumping against the wall of the room. Grim and dirt from his expedition trailed his path down the wall.

"How was it," asked the male fraternal twin.

"When was the last time the two of you went out on a mission," Alvarado tousled his own dirty hair, what was once close cropped was no shaggy.

"We haven't yet," said the brunette twin sister.

"You've not been called up before," Juan's question was answered by twin nods. "well, truth be told, we all have a lot of learning to do. I…need to get back out there."

"Well, welcome back to the cupboard," replied the old cobbler as he stripped a sole off of a boot.

"I'll be back out there soon enough," predicted Alvarado as he rubbed his jaw, noting the growth of whiskers coming back from his last shave. His pack acted like a cushion as he leaned back. He slumped over and began to snore in an instant, exhaustion induced sleep came quickly to Juan.

A couple of days later, a dust cloud rose in the horizon to mark a foot caravan approaching the Regulator ranch. In the field next to the brahmin pens, Alvarado was goading one of the beasts forward with a rope tied to both necks and snots. Behind the beast, the cobbler helped to guide a plowshare made from a melted down Chinese Officer's sword. The twin probationary Regulators were repairing a fence of the brahmin pens, digging holes for vertical posts and notches for horizontal posts. The cobbler stopped to wipe his brow and viewed the coming caravan as he held his hand like a visor.

"Sam, Rudd, go and tell Regulator Hatcher that a convoy is approaching," the cobbler ordered as Juan stopped the brahmin in the field, patting the animals twin foreheads.

The Platt Twins walked over to the ranch house to relay the information to Hatcher. Alvarado ambled behind the brahmin to see cobbler unlash himself from the crudely constructed plow. A bucket swayed near the end of the plow suspended by ropes tied to the twin handles. Seeds were planted in the winter because the warmer weather, since the Great War, meant a drier and hotter summer not fit for plant life without proper irrigation. Only outside the D.C. Ruins was where the people of the Capital Wasteland were able to till the soil in winter and even then it was pure luck for anything to grow. Radiation, flash floods, and a brutalizing environment did not help agriculture grow near the D.C. Ruins. However, places like Drayden, Saint Mar, and Point Lookout gave hope to a green future. Regulators had grown starchy stalks that were used to feed the brahmians, now they were attempting to plant seeds from a traveling merchant in strange clothes. A small portion of the field would be used to test his claims. It had cost the Regulators next to nothing.

"Do we get many traders," asked Juan, his hand on the pouch of caps tied to the inside of his pants.

"Don't let it burn a hole in your pouch," warned the cobbler, stroking his beard as he kept an eye on the convoy dust, "Regulators need to spend caps on something, and I hate to say it, but it seems Cruz has taken a shine to you."

"What makes you say that?" A perplexed look came upon the Operative's face.

"Some people would wait several years to see missions. Those kids haven't been called up yet. I went out a few times with Regulator Stone," continued the cobbler as they walked the untethered animal into the pen. "Stone was a good Regulator, but that time with him didn't lead to admittance. You are lucky, kid, to be noticed this early and by the best of the young crowd too."

"Brit and Os are all right," agreed Juan as he bit his leather glove on his right hand to take it off.

"Those two are considered the future of the Regulators, the reincarnations of Chil Crossin and Sonora's father." Cobbler patted the animal's flank to get it to turn left and into the pen, "I remember being a kid and hearing stories of Manuel Cruz and Chil Crossin. Most of you young guys just know about Herbert 'Daring' Dashwood, but he has nothing on Manuel and Chil."

"Never heard of them," admitted Alvarado as the locked the pen up.

"Manuel Cruz and Chil Crossin founded the Regulators of the Capital Wasteland. The Cruzes came out from the west generations ago, but Manuel was born locally. Chil Crossin came from what was called the Canadian Annexation. It's also how he got his name, crossing from the chilly north," the Cobbler imparted information with a smile, "we better hurry up and join the others, enough history lessons for today."

The merchant surprised all the Regulators at the headquarters by revealing that Wesson Chambers was alive, under his skilled care, and missing half of his face. Alvarado was sent with the Platt Twins, Brittany Ward, and Oscar to ensure Chamber's safety in Canterbury Commons. Juan received a personal shock when he recognized Knight Captain Galeas and Operative Annabelle LaCroix. A scribe they were traveling with was not familiar to Alvarado, though he didn't question hood wearing man and his knowledge of the Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services. LaCroix exposed that his former partner, Lolli Pop, had been placed as an undercover agent amongst Talon Company. Juan, likewise, confided in Galeas his concern for the missing outposts, wastelanders, and communities. The Knight Captain was neither too impressed nor worried about the news.

The Brotherhood of Steel cared about the people of the Capital Wasteland. The organization, however, had not moved itself to the assistance of every person and place. Regulators were meant to be the group that worked for the people, but the disappearances of communities from a wide area was too much for them to handle. The injured man being taken to Canterbury Commons was undeniable proof to the danger of the wasteland for Regulators. Dusters milled around the hotel room where Wesson Chambers' lay in recovery. Oscar was the only made Regulator in the chamber; the Platt Twins and Juan were only probationary members.

Brittany Ward burst back into the room causing Chambers to stir. One of the Platt Twins calmed the injured Regulator with a hot and moist compress. Ward grabbed a bag and pointed to the girl, Sam, "grab some gear," she ordered as she turned to Juan and Oscar. "Jarvis Ba was the on making that ruckus down the hall. I'm going to bring him in but there is a…complication."

"Another bounty hunter," asked Oscar, competing contracts were the second worst fact to being a Regulator, besides the danger of being injured or killed.

"Something like that, remember those mercenaries that we came into town with," Os and Juan nodded, "well, they came for the Bounty Hunter, Samuel Warrick. It seems that Ba has the only controller to bomb strapped to Warrick's and an old man from Rosie's Republic. The situation is a total cluster-fuck. They have need for Warrick to help them find some people, but after that Ba is ours and possibly the other one too."

"The probie and I will stay back with Chambers," offered Oscar, Juan nodded as Chambers sighed heavily.

"Do you think the Platt Twins can handle an animal like Ba?" Ward doubted the probationary members for the first outing.

"You need the extra hands," reasoned the black Regulator, "and Chambers needs the protection. I need someone that can handle Talon Company in a gunfight, if they do come. We'll secure Wesson and het him some more help."

"Keep training the froshie in the meantime," ordered Brit as she and the Platt Twins went to collect the bounty.

The silence after the three other Regulators left hung heavy. They wouldn't admit it, but between Chambers coughs and groans, the only sound Oscar and Juan heard was the pumping of their own blood. Not taking the lack of sound comfortably, Alvarado made an excuse to go out for a walk about town and stretch his legs. In truth, his plan was to find a secluded spot and write notes for BIOS dead drops and couriers. Oscar nodded his consent to the probationary member, the silence returning to the room as the Hispanic teen from Rivet City left the chamber. The refurbished hotel had creaking steps, drafty doors, and splintering wood recovered from old houses. It was one of the better spots to live in Canterbury Commons.

Sun light hurt his eyes when he got on the hotel stoop. Covered windows, a few candles, and limited electrical power made for poor lighting in the boardinghouse. A limited amount of candles were used sparingly in the rooms because they offered little light and made a horrendous smell. Animal rendered into tallow along with old strings of questionable origin left a sooty color on the walls and stench in the nostrils. A clear winter sky sent a chill down Alvarado's bones as the stench of burning animal left him for crowded streets. The sun's rays warmed his bare face and forced him to close his eyes. He traveled down the main street a few steps and spotted his friend and colleague. Outside of the eyes of their minders, they shared a quick and friendly embrace.

"I couldn't really say it then, but it has been great seeing you," she said with a faint smile.

"It's been great to see you as well, no one ever said how lonely undercover work would be," Alvarado heaved a sigh, "Brit was telling us how you guys needed a Bounty Hunter to find some people."

"The others have already left, I am to tail them for security purposes," Annabelle rubbed her bare forearm, missing the sheath for her dagger. "Juan, if I am not back in a week, will you pick something up from Weyland the Smith, for me?"

"What is it you need me to do," Juan knew he needed more information first.

"I'm having a mask made for Chambers," LaCroix bit her lip on the last comment. "Also, Weyland is making an improved dagger and sheath for me."

"The Regulators can't know about this, I'll have to send your weapons off to the Alexandria the day I pick them up." Juan tightened his belt holding his arm in place.

"You'll find the items saved under my full first name, Annabelle," she winced as Juan made a face of amusement, "tell Wesson that…it's a gift from me for him to use as protection from weak minded people."

"Annabelle, really," Juan raised one eyebrow in mocked surprised.

"I'm not the only one with an embarrassing name," her flippant comment caught Alvarado in disbelief.

"You read my personnel file," he observed, already knowing LaCroix was being trained in infiltration, sabotage, and assassination prior to his undercover assignment.

"It is possible, Juan Maria Alvarado," she smiled walking away; Annabelle needed to catch up with the others.

Juan yelled out, "that was my mother's name," as Annabelle did a back handed wave goodbye. "It's a common fucking practice," the Hispanic operative grumbled as he continued to walk on the street.

It had been three days since Brittany Ward, the Platt Twins, and the BIOS Operatives had left, Juan had made certain Doc Hoff had been in to examine Chambers constantly. The leg wound and arm were healing nicely, but his missing face would constantly be a problem. Hoff mentioned an Old World procedure where flesh could be grafted on. However, for even a maximum success rate of thirty percent required an auto – doc. Canterbury Commons lacked that piece of medical equipment, and also lacked the ability to procure one. Auto – docs were far too heavy to move without a two party team of brahmin. The last report of a useable auto – doc had been made by Reily's Rangers, no one had truly followed up on it.

Oscar and Juan separated the day in six hour shifts between taking care of Wesson and filling a booth at Joe Porter's Diner. On occasion some of the locals would stop by, buy them a drink, and idly talk about daily events or news. Mayor Ernest Roe took up a lot of their time asking questions that Alvarado didn't know the answer to or didn't know his should say anything. Rumors were just as important as news when it came to speculation on the Five Settlement Talks. There was a fear of a returning Enclave style martial law, but for the most part people were optimistic.

"Did you hear, the Brotherhood of Steel has been helping the people from Friendship Heights and even Rosie's Republic," someone commented to Juan.

"I hear they plan to make an aqueduct that spans from Tenpenny Tower to the Eastern Shore," another local said.

"I heard they are going to have an election soon," this person spoke with bravado, "you know who I'd vote for, the Lone Wanderer, that's who!"

"If there is a new government, someone from the Brotherhood will likely run it," an old cantankerous man injected.

"It's that mayor out of Grayditch making all the plans for the Five Settlement Talks," corrected a woman smugly, "I've read it in the Grayditch Guardian."

"You haven't read shit! Hell, Three Dog has been keeping us all up to date since the first speech," another patron of the diner added.

Some of the wilder speculation dealt with militarized super mutants, a secret ghoul city of fully working pre – War technology, and a foreign force of androids bent on subjugating the human race for a multitude of reasons. Yelling from the market caught Alvarado's attention. He looked out the window to see a man in common clothes standing on an old metal box with three men around him showing weapons that ranged from a stick to a handgun. Juan couldn't make out the man's words from Joe Porter's Diner but he caught the attention of some people. After a few hours, the man stopped his preaching and the market slowly broke up in the waning light after several more hours.

The same man was there the next day, and then the day after that. An overly optimistic refrain of thought from the diner crew became tempered with disappointment. Knowledge that Canterbury Commons was not part of the original Five Settlement talks upset the people. _Why not invite the Commons_, they thought and voiced, _are we not good enough for their new government? _Juan was told by Oscar not to comment because it could drag the Regulators into a mess, so Alvarado kept his mouth shut and listened.

"Why would we support an organization that has already forgotten us from the onset?" The orator projected to the crowd, his voice hoarser then the previous days, "Grayditch, a city with no history, is looking to be a seat of power. I say let them, but they will have no power over Canterbury Commons. They would have no power in Drayden, Rosie's Republic, Saint Mar, and all the villages, hamlets, or homes in between and up to the Eastern Shore. I call up our common blood, flesh, and sinew to follow an example before the Great War melted the rocks, burnt the seas, and darkened our future. An example before this former great nation divided itself into thirteen commonwealths of equal stature. To avoid a future demise at the hands of outsiders, we must return to a state of self-rule.

"A nation – state formed from people by way of the ICB to Canterbury Commons, all the way out to the tiny black rock island of Saxis. No Southerners, Northerners, Westerners telling us how we should run our land, our soil, our flesh. The future of Canterbury Commons is with the Sons of Maryland. Join us, brothers and sisters, and we will determine our own future!"

There was some loud applause while other people jeered the speaker. The next day, his guards had to push the crowd back as the orator began yet again. The crowd kept on growing in size over these days, the sentiments mixed between agreement and scorn for the orator. Dominic D'Ellsadro and Machete were watching the crowd, the robots had been ordered to guard the parameter so they would not cause more harm than good. If violence broke out like the anti – Brotherhood of Steel riots in Grayditch, than the robots would turn it into a blood bath. Sentry bots, Protectrons, and Mister Gutsys were great for deterring raiders and keeping order. When it came pacifying a crowd, they lacked a certain finesse that discerning human eyes, ears, and words were able to handle.

Just as the speaker started up again on another day, questions and accusations were hurled at him from the crowd. "Sir, you ask me what right I have to talk? I tell you this, kind people of Canterbury Commons, that no one has taken away your right to say anything. Speak your mind people. Do not be afraid to let your thoughts out! I am up here today, not as a benefit for all of you, but because I look to inform you on the ongoing of this land and let you make your own decisions. My right to speak of creating a New Maryland is the same right you have to speak against me, with me, or not speak, or listen, or to even ignore me. The choice is up to you."

"Fake, you speak big words every day," complained a woman, Juan's hand was on the hilt of his gun, "you have the stench of a Rivet City crier!"

"Ya, you hack," shouted another person from the audience.

"My name is Horace Peale," proclaimed the orator as he held his hand over his heart. "I am a true Son of Maryland, a simple farmer from Saint Mar who learnt to read and write by age five from local teachers in the school house. I, alone, am not important; but we, together, are important because it is through us a mighty oak can grow. A tree based in roots of family, a trunk of liberty, and branches of prosperity that provide the fruits of happiness. How many have tasted the fruit of your labor?

"I cannot see here in this crowd any that have. Well, let me tell you Brothers, it is sweet and savory and satiates any hunger or quenches any thirst. Happiness is the knowing that there is a future for you and your family in an improving world. One in which you have a say," he paused and looked at certain faces in the crowd. "You have the right to form a society in your own image, and not have it dictated to you by the Council of Grayditch, the warlord of Megaton, or the fat cats of Tenpenny Tower. Who wants the Enclave again? No one, so why allow the Brotherhood of Steel risk turning into our enemies?

"There is no reason to risk it! The Brotherhood of Steel is a part of our Maryland as much as the Regulators are, but they do not rule us, only lend a hand when we ask for it." Horace Peale paused and breathed slowly. "I am a farmer by trade, but when conflict came to Saint Mar, I took up arms in her defense. Now is a time to take up new weapons that have more effect than gunpowder and lasers. Our weapons shall be our bodies, our voice, and our belief in Maryland rising from the ashes of decay, subservience, and fear.

"Sons of Maryland, this dream and idea of a better tomorrow will exist in our time. It will exist for our children, and our children's children. A state of our own choosing, our own design, absent of foreign influence and those seeking to use and subjugate us time and time again. Let us create something new from something so old and decayed. Let us no longer pin for our glorious past, the one that put us on the road to where we stand today. Let our eyes be to the future while our hearts swell with pride, respect, and honor because we created a New Maryland for ourselves!"

Juan walked away from the speaker and crowd. He could only take so much brahmin – shit before getting a headache worthy of a few shots of whiskey. Three quick pops were heard from a low caliber hand gun. Screams and shouts could be heard as people rushed away from the scene. Alvarado turned back to the running and frightened crowd and tried to make to where the orator was like a salmon trying to swim against the current. Dominic D'Ellsadro and Machete were already at the sight of the crime when the probationary Regulator arrived. On the ground of Canterbury Common's main street lay a Son of Maryland guard, an open wound to his chest and blank stare in his unmoving eyes. Another man, wearing a green cowl and loose fitting tunic, was on the ground on his stomach with three red holes in his back. The assailant seemed to have had made his disappearance in the fleeing crowd.

Two men dead, the orator named Horace Peale had been hit in the shoulder as well, from a bullet that went through the man wearing the green tunic. He had one of his Sons of Maryland guards treating the flesh wound. Machete began to interrogate the few people that remained. Some who were near the shooter wanted to help get the criminal caught. Juan presented himself to Dominic.

"How can I help," he asked, indicating with his tone that a Regulator should be assisting them.

"Hmm, well Regulator, it would have been great if you had stopped this mess before it happened." The comment was sharp and pointed out that Juan was not as an experienced enforcer like D'Ellsadro, "help Machete find out who this is," he indicated the man in the green tunic, "I'm going to have inform Ernest and get the streets cleared of these fucking bodies before they start to rot. What a great fucking way to start a great fucking day!"

Ernest Roe was pale as a sheet of paper and looked as if a strong gust of wind could knock him over. He ran to the crime scene seeing as word had spread quicker than Dominic could walk. When he began Canterbury Commons several decades ago as a rest stop for the caravans and convoys, he never imagined it could turn into such a vibrant town. Little did he know all those years ago, along with people, caps, and business, so to came the crime, squalor, and corruption. "Dom, I hear about the gunshots on Main Street, what's going on?"

Juan turned his attention to the remains of the crowd with Machete, "ma'am, Regulator Alvarado, tell me what you'd have me do," he said to Dominic's fellow law enforcer.

"Fucking hell, take some statements, we need to find this murderer," she growled as her temper took over because she lacked patience.

The undercover Brotherhood of Steel Operative nodded and began with a merchant that hadn't seen a thing, only heard the gun shots. Natives of Canterbury Commons blamed Megaton, those visiting from Megaton impugned Tenpenny Tower, and witnesses from Drayden accused the Eastern Shore. Juan now saw how the different townships treated each other. Their relationship was nasty, brutish, and full of suspicion. The only credible lead was about a plain clothes man pulling a small semi – automatic pistol the witness identified as a Guardian. During this time, Dominic had employed some men to collect the bodies and bring them to Doc Hoff's apartment for a post – mortem autopsy.

Alvarado made his way over the good doctor's residence, his rosary in his hand and wrapped around his wrist from the brief pray he gave for the two dead men. The old fire station that Ernest Roe lived in had four apartments renovated into it where he housed the largest caravans in the Capital Wasteland: Doc Hoff, Lucky Harith, Crazy Wolfgang, and Crow. At the doctor's apartment, Juan found the Canterbury Commons law enforcers already there. Two bodies of the murdered men were laid out naked on a wooden table. Dominic turned to the probationary Regulator as he walked in.

"It's about fucking time you showed up Regulator!" The local law man said before turning away to the dead bodies.

"Sorry, I had a personal thing to do," replied Juan, annoyed at Dominic, "what do we have here, Doc?"

"Two dead fucking men," responded Machete with smirk as Dom chuckled once.

"Yes, but two distinct deaths," Doc Hoff turned the guards body over on its side to show the small hole on the back and the large hole in the front. "The entrance wound is consistent with a thirty – two caliber Automatic Colt Pistol round. See the lack of stippling, or gunpowder residue, and the irregular entrance wound in the back? He was not an intended kill. The path of the bullet was interrupted before it entered him."

Doc Hoff returned the body to lay it on its back before he pointed to the next man. There were three small round holes with burnt and sooty skin. Two of the shots were centered on the heart, "this was the intended target. Three chest shots in a good grouping and at close range, all blowing out his back and traveling just as fast. The shot taken by the other man in the shoulder was probably one of these as well, luckily no one else got hurt."

"No one seems to know who that guy is," Machete commented on the ordinary face of the intended murder victim.

Doc Hoff shrugged, "not my job to know, but his clothes were different from anything I've seen so far, they were made of some kind of plant matter."

Juan cocked an eyebrow, "I found witness that said a plain clothes man pulled out a small automatic pistol called a Guardian."

"Great fucking detective work," the sarcasm from Dom continued to annoy Alvarado, "that is one of the most common handguns used by people before the Great War, and before you ask, yes it's a fucking thirty – two ACP. I bet you're one of Cruz's best Regulators."

"Actually, I'm just a probationary member until I earn my official duster," admitted Juan, but after the words left his mouth he knew he had said the wrong thing.

"You're not even a fucking Reg!" A tone between indignation and humor in her voice, Machete yelled out.

"Wait, are you being serious right now," Dominic was in no laughing mood, "get the fuck out of here."

"I'm sure I can…," Juan's words were cut short.

"Kid, we'll contact you if we need your help," Dom put an arm around Alvarado's bad shoulder and escorted him out of the apartment.

The door closed loudly behind him, a gust of air hitting his backside. Alvarado walked back to the hotel as he observed the people return to the street. Some would look him in the eyes, others would whisper to their friends. He brushed past them quickly. Time was of the essence to catch a murderer. _But why murder that man, what had he done worthy of a public execution?_

Wesson Chambers still lay in bed, his half face accumulated with pus as it had for days. Around the edges of the gunpowder burns, pink flesh could be seen as a sign of healing. Oscar was in the process of undoing his corn rows, half of his head was an afro of dark hair as he picked another tightly bound row apart. Juan sat down and untied his arm from his belt. It lay lifeless on the arm of the chair he sat down in. One black glove made of leather protected his hand from topical injuries. With his palm facing up and slightly curled fingers, the gloved hand looked more malevolent untied from his belt.

"Probie, what was all that commotion in town about," Oscar continued to undo his hair.

"Shooting at the daily Sons of Maryland speech," informed Alvarado as he massaged his dead arm to make sure it still had blood flow. "Two dead, on injured, and the gun man is still at large. One of the deaths is…strange."

"Whatcha mean," asked the black Regulator as he undid the last corn row to let his hair out in an afro.

"One of the men killed was shot three times in the chest, he wore a green tunic and cowl," he turned his head up from his arm to look Oscar in the eyes, the information not irrelevant concerning the dead man's dress sense.

"Any identification on this dead guy," the Regulator was trying to tame his afro with a comb, to no avail.

"No papers, or tokens, though I'd say the tunic and hood were pretty identifying if we knew what they meant," Juan shook his head, disappointed at their lack of information.

"Dominic and Machete handling this well," the statement was more of a question and gave pause to Juan as Oscar stuffed his hair into a bandana.

"I don't rightly know, as they kicked me off from officially helping them." The probationary member was massaging his arm again, making sure to keep the blood moving so none of his extremities got blood loss.

"They kicked you off the case," repeated Oscar as he leaned forward with a furrowed brow.

"Yea, they did," Alvarado held his head in shame, knowing he wasn't as confident as Oscar or Ward, yet. Oscar was heading to the door, "where are you going?"

"To clean up your mess, Froshie," Oscar rolled his eyes as he headed out the door.

"Nothing to see here, Citizen," announced a Mister Gutsy as two men were cleaning up the blood from the morning that was left on the street.

"Good day," Oscar said to a woman outside the apartments of Ernest Roe.

"What the fuck you want," she asked, blowing the hair of her eyes.

"Regulator Oscar, the town leaders still meeting," Oscar's 'fro was tucked under a bandana, his duster swaying around his boot covered calves.

"Good, they sent a real Regulator, this time," commented Machete as she walked over to the Gutsy and cleanup crew.

The autopsy had ended and the group had moved to Ernest Roe's apartment. Dominic D'Ellsadro and Ernest Roe were more than happy enough to bury the shooting under the rug and just beef up security by hiring a few more guards and asking for 'donations' from the merchants. The duster was seen as an intrusion of the meeting between long standing friends. Oscar turned an ancient plastic and metal chair around and sat down with his legs spread. He leaned forward with his arms crossed on the back of the cracked plastic kitchen chair.

"Heard you got rid of my apprentice," a wide smile on the black Regulator's face as he continued to tuck his hair under his bandana.

"Good to have a duster wearing Regulator than a one arm putz," growled Dom.

"That 'one armed putz' as you put it is a personally invested member by Sonora Cruz and Marshall Lawson. I'm sure your apology is forth coming, thank you in advance. As to the matters in town, what have we decided upon," Oscar drawled as he flicked his eyes between the pair of men, "come now, I know you've all come to a decision without little ol' me."

"I believe we've closed matters on this issue in town," stated Roe, his level of comfort showed as he crossed his arms and legs, almost as if he subconsciously wanted to protect his body from harm.

"Well, now, ain't that quaint," the smile on the black Regulator's face was gone, replaced with a look as cold and hard as stone. "Perhaps you can enlighten me to how you found this murderer and brought him to justice?"

"Last time I checked, Canterbury Commons wasn't under Regulator control," Dom said, causing Oscar to laugh out loud.

"You are joking, right?" Os ticked off on his fingers, "Plunkett, Devin, the Rock Crushers, hell we have taken care of all the murderers, raiders, and thieves that preyed upon this community. If I were to give this response to Sonora Cruz about how you appreciate us so much, what do you think she would say? Hell, what do you think she'd _do_? Now let's be honest with each other."

"If we probe into this further, the chances are it will lead nowhere and waste my time," stated Dominic as he stood up. "One man had no family here, and the other was Son of Maryland prick, no one is going to miss them or care."

"Just because you don't favor his words, doesn't mean the Sons of Maryland can't speak publicly," rebuked the Regulator.

"Whatever the political or personal ideas of men are to themselves, we don't have the man power to investigate this crime. We can make inroads to prevent it in the future, but we see the gaps in our security now," Roe acknowledged.

"I can send word to Crux, maybe get some regulators out to help at a smaller cost than mercenaries and hired goons," offered Oscar as Dominic D'Ellsadro shook his head.

"No, hell no," stated the head of security for Canterbury Commons.

"I don't plan on taking your job, today," deadpanned Oscar, "but we can have boots on the ground that are well trained, better equipped, and on the town's side."

"More boots are welcome, just as long as the Regulators know whose town it is they are in," agreed Roe after he thought long and hard, his law enforcing friend growled like a freshly caged animal.

"Cruz might ask to make a permanent liaison position for the future," added Oscar as Dom began to say something. "I only mention it because it's been seen to work in Minefield, and thus far in Graydtich."

"Fucking hell, what is this town coming too!" Dom threw his hands up in frustration.

"Listen, you got two Regulators here now, another one recovering from injuries. They might just install us as the extra help, or get some more men out to support. We'd be here for the town and Regulator business, which is for the betterment of the town as well," Oscar conveyed, he wished Brittany was there because she was better at dealing with local leadership than he was.

"The day regulators tell me and Machete what to do is the day I hang up my holsters. I didn't protect caravans for decades to spend my retirement being the middleman to some Reg bastard or bitch," to emphasize his opinion, Dom spat on the ground of Ernest Roe's apartment.

The Mayor of Canterbury Commons stood up, "Dominic, go see that the cleanup is going well and that the streets are still safe." There was a long pause as both friends looked each other in the eyes as if having a silent conversation. The leather clad protector of Canterbury Commons left the apartment in a fit of pique, his shoulders became slack. Ernest held a hand out to Oscar's chair to indicate a seat should be retaken as the Regulator had risen when Dominic left the apartment. "Peace on our streets, for the most part, has been enforced not by gun carrying militiamen, but by a…gentlemanly agreement between traders."

"And with the recent gun battle in the streets that peace might have been eroded," concluded the black Regulator as Ernest nodded.

"Also, when word comes out that the boys from Everygreen Mills were wiped out by that bounty hunter, the less savory types will become…more less savory," Roe, up and to that point, had kept the news of Samuel Warrick's actions out of common knowledge, but secrets seldom remain secret. "Having a Regulator or two in town to help with things will be good to show who is maintaining order. Now, Dom and Machete are always the go – to people in town for security, and they will remain that way. Any Regulator in town will just be for show, really. Shows of force, no doubt, but still not parts of Canterbury Commons that can make or enforce policy without Dom or Machete's say so."

"Regulators are far more than pageantry or window dressings," corrected Oscar as he fluttered his duster a little, adjusting it in his seat, "the guns we carry aren't empty, nor are our wounds we take. All are earned in the line of duty."

"I'm not saying I disrespect the Regulators. I'm accepting the idea of having a local Regulator stationed here, but I need someone agreeable to Canterbury Commons," Roe licked his dry lips. "On the North side of town we are building tenements for the poor so they can abandon the tent city that has sprung up around us. We have plans for a medical center. Heck, we even might make a prison no that Weyland can mold bars and reinforce bricks from Rosie's Republic. Without continued stability and confidence, none of this can happen."

"You need someone that can work with you, more so than work for the Regulators," observed Oscar as he had a pensive moment. "I'm sure Sonora Cruz could find someone for you. In the meantime, you are probably going to be stuck with me, Probationary Regulator Alvarado, and the recovering Wesson Chambers."

"Wesson Chambers is the half faced man under your care," Roe became slightly nervous at the name.

"Do you see this as a problem?" The question was rhetorical.

"No, at least I don't think so," dismissed Ernest as he stood up. "There will be people looking for him, though."

"Talon Company is a Regulator issue," Oscar killed the notion of another incident, "we'll make sure it doesn't affect Canterbury Commons."

"I don't have a star or anything to give you, but I think the duster speaks for itself," Ernest smiled at his own comment.

"If Alvarado and I are going to parade the streets, who is to take care of Chambers," asked Oscar as he stood up.

"I'll convince Doc Hoff to not go on his next convoy, or at least postpone it to take care of Mister Chambers," Oscar had no doubt in Roe's capability with suggesting ideas to his merchants and making them stick. With that, the black Regulator left the apartment of the Mayor. He needed to draft a letter for Sonora Cruz. Canterbury Commons was to go the way of Grayditch and Minefield.

A month passed without word from Brittany Ward, the Platt Twins, or any of the Brotherhood of Steel Operatives. Tensions had been on the street of Canterbury Commons. The presence of Oscar and Juan Alvarado had soothed it at times, but it still existed in the background. Word around town was that the Regulators were here to stay. That law and order was to fall to one of the oldest legal systems in the Capital Wasteland. Oscar leaned heavily on Dominic D'Ellsadro to pass new regulations in town, specifically that no guns were allowed indoors of public places. Protectrons served as the collectors of weapons at places like Joe Porter's Diner and the hotel. Tinker Joe was happy to have a new use of his pet projects, in truth the old man loved to be useful.

Joe Porter was happy with the idea of safety in his establishment, as well. Oscar would check in on occasion, leaving the true work to Dominic and Machete. Some scuffles broke out that required Oscar or Juan to help the local law enforcers, but nothing too serious. Doc Hoff was able to give Wesson Chambers a reluctant clean bill of health, albeit on large sliding scale. The gunshots to his arm and leg had healed nicely and mobility had returned. Strength now needed to be built up in his limbs to return them to their prior use. Juan gifted LaCroix's face mask to 'Half – Face' Chambers, the Regulator did not hide his initial anger. Wesson was unable to look at himself in the mirror for fear of hating himself further with the face that stared back at him.

Weyland the Smith did a fantastic job on the Pitt steel mask. He molded to half a grown man's face of Wesson's size, engraving along the polished metal with vines, leaves, and flowers as decoration. Well-worn leather was bolted to the metal and two straps to lock in place at the neck and the crown of the forehead. Alvarado was impressed with Weyland's style, though he was confused at a third package for LaCroix besides her dagger. He sent both along quickly to the Alexandria, not wanting to delve in his colleagues personal belongings.

The Sons of Maryland had become a constant presence in Canterbury Commons. Horace Peale was their spokesman in town, but also continued to say that each town, village, and hamlet were their own leaders. Some of the locals were swayed to the Sons of Maryland because of economic security, indignation at the Five Settlement Talks excluding them, or simply to belong to something. Crossland patches featuring a cross bottony counter – coloring in red and white started to appear on arms, sewn to breasts, or on sashes. At the same time, others began to wear patches of navy blue with five circled white five pointed stars. However, for the most part, people refused to show any allegiance, especially Ernest Roe.

The Mayor of Canterbury Commons found the political tension a thicker climate to maneuver through then he was prepared to admit. The Regulators offered protection from the lawless rabble, but not from ideological parties or would – be government bodies. January was proving to be a treacherous month as the Five Settlement Talks grew in representation. Equally, rumors of Commonwealth spies having seeped into every community increased fear of a foreign power. Fear of these seemingly harmless pilgrims turned to talk on invasion, war, and the possible return of the Enclave. Juan Alvarado was unable to point to where the rumors started, but the fact that a regular citizen could understand the relationship between the Commonwealth and the Enclave did not bode well.

Juan was in the circle market making the rounds as Oscar hung outside of Ernest Roe's apartment, keeping an eye on the Main Street. Dominic was in Joe Porter's Diner, keeping an eye on the drinkers and merry makers. Machete was on the other side of town, overlooking the tenement construction. The hooping and hallowing was the first sign of any danger as it could be heard from miles away. A cloud of dust was formed to the northwest as twenty or so armed men and women with black combat armor came into town. They were dirty, deplorable, and dangerous. The white talon emblem on their right breasts and shoulders showed their affiliation.

Oscar watched with annoyance as they came in to town, some eve fired their weapons in the air. Clearly something good had happened to Talon Company and they were here to celebrate. Usually the mercenaries avoided Canterbury Commons, but nothing was going to stand in the way of their merriment today. Merchants, caravans, and citizens cleared the street for these rowdy bunch of Talon Company mercenaries. Machete made her way over to Oscar as he pulled back his duster and tapped his shotgun's wooden stock. The leader of the Talon Company mercenary team gave a two finger salute to Oscar, a smile on his already drunk face. Juan was already next to Oscar as the Protectron of Joe Porter's Diner asked for the mercenaries weapons.

One of the Talon mercenaries levels its sawed-off shotgun in the 'face' of the machine before releasing the twin triggers. Buckshot exploded the mechanical protector's central processing unit, voiding the manufacturer's warranty. Dom halted the mercenaries and ordered them to relinquish their weapons, the patrons waited with bated breath. The Talon Company captain laughed before he agreed. He took out his forty – five caliber magnum and flipped it to hold the grip out to Dominic.

Regrettably, Dom didn't see that the mercenary captain held his index finger in the trigger guard. As Dom reached for the weapon, the captain flipped the gun back around to land in his hand. The muzzle pointed at D'Ellsadro. The Canterbury Common's law enforcer's eyes went wide as his right hand went for his own weapon. He was not quick enough. BANG! The shot was loud and impacted with Dom's stomach hard, tearing through leather and flesh. It threw him back against the bar's counter, his knees weak as his slumped to the ground. The bullet was lodged in his gut. Gunpowder had ignited the leather armor causing a small circle of fire around the wound. He patted the fire out and held his injured stomach, groaning in pain.

The Talon mercenaries fired their weapons into the air and the patrons ran out screaming. Dominic groaned as he held his perforated stomach, his legs askew on the ground and his back against the counter. Joe Porter had already pissed his pants when a Talon merc pointed a gun at him and ordered drinks. Oscar held Machete back before she could run in to get herself killed.

"Get Chambers," ordered the black Regulator coldly.

Juan rushed to the hotel to collect Wesson Chambers, who held the half mask with a broken mirror at his feet, "we have trouble in town."

"Mmmm," growled Half – Face Chambers, uninterested.

"They're Talon Company," Juan could see he had Wesson's attention.

"I'll be there…in a minute," he answered and Juan decided to leave and rejoin Oscar.

"Where is Chambers," asked Os.

"He said he'll be down soon," shrugged Juan as he took out his one handed ten millimeter submachine gun.

Oscar nodded as Machete readied her submachine gun, "hey, Talon Company," yelled Oscar as the loaded and cocked his shotgun. "I said, Talon Company!"

The songs, cheers, and gunshots from the diner died down as all twenty Talon Company mercenaries staggered outside, "ah, Regulator! You should celebrate with us," yelled the mercenary captain as they stood across from each other on the street.

"You were asked twice to hand in your weapons," stated Oscar as he held his shotgun, "if you do not comply, I have the right to remove you from town."

"And we just started the party!" The mercenary captain was smiling as his team laughed, "didn't you hear? Commander Cobb and the Second Scouts took back Takoma Industrial! Surely it is a time to celebrate!" As the leader yelled his team fired their weapons into the air.

"If you do not leave town from the count of three, we will be forced to remove you," warned Oscar as both sides readied their weapons, he was stalling hoping Chambers would join soon. "Three!"

The townspeople had abandoned the street but were watching from windows, "come on, don't be a fool, we out number you," yelled the captain.

"Two," replied Oscar as three rusted cans were thrown in front of the Talon mercenaries.

Instinctively they all ducked out of the way as Oscar, Machete, and Juan took cover behind an ancient jersey barrier on their side of the street. The Talon captain stood up laughing as he held a tin can in his hands. "What do you call this, Regulator? A junk grenade?"

"Try a powder keg," growled Wesson 'Half – Face' Chambers as he shot the tin can packed tight with gun powder. The explosion of flames removed the captain's hand to mid forearm and set half his face on fire, burning off hair and his drunken smug smile.

Chambers walked with a slow gate because of his bad leg. Two semi – automatic forty – five caliber pistols that were gifted to him by Sonora Cruz as a get well present and replacement for his lost weapons were being fired simultaneously. His old duster covered in blood, dirt, and holes billowed while he walked and shot the second tin making a small explosion and lots of confusion. On his head he wore a leather Stetson hat, the front brim tilted down while the back was tilted up. The hideous scar of burnt, mangled, and missing skin on the right side of his face was covered by the shining engraved metal mask.

One of his eyes was squinted, the right eye large, blood shot, and all seeing lined up the third tin can packed with gunpowder. Panicked Talons didn't know where to fire as another explosion occurred creating a cloud of black smoke. Juan stood up and began to fire at the disoriented mercenaries. Oscar joined him, along with Machete, emptying shell after shell into the turkey shoot. The mercenaries began to shoot back, regrouping themselves. Machete was hit first, catching a round in the lower abdomen and taking her out of the fight as she held the wound tight.

A bullet grazed Chambers' thigh, causing him to fall to his knees but he kept firing. Of the twenty Talons, barely seven remained in fighting condition. Juan heard and felt three thumps to his left side. With no pain, Alvarado caught his breath and kept firing. The recoil from the gun kept hitting his hand and forcing his shoulder back. The smell of copper became pervasive as he continued shooting. The mechanical clicks told him he needed a new magazine.

"We surrender," shouted the few living Talon Company mercenaries.

Oscar forced Juan's arm down to prevent any more shots. It was beginning to get hazy around the edges of the probationary Regulator's vision. Sound seemed to be muted. Oscar's lips were moving, but Alvarado couldn't make any sense of it.

"'Ek na Ahmber," was all the probationary Regulator could hear, and then everything reverted to normal, Oscar repeated the order. "Go check on Chambers."

Juan couldn't find his voice but nodded. He found Half – Face Chambers kneeling in the road, his twin forty – fives on the ground. Alvarado saw the man's chest heaving, new bullet holes in his duster. Juan offered his good hand and Half – Face took it, looking up with his metal mask. The Regulator moved slowly to the three Talon Company mercenaries that had survived with injuries. Chambers took out his knife and began to remove fingers, first from the living Talons.

The undercover Brotherhood of Steel Operative rushed forward, unable to scream no as blood pounded in his head. The blurring around his eyes grew as his right hand grabbed his left side to feel it slick with wetness. The color of the wetness on his gloves was dark red. It was at that point his vision went black as he felt his head hitting the street's asphalt. In the muffled noises he could hear, someone was shouting for Doc Hoff. And then darkness, once again in his short life, embraced him.

Juan first awoke a few hours after the gunfight to a pressure on his legs and chest. All he could see was a brown duster in front of his face through his half opened eyes. The smell of dirt overpowered that of blood. But soon he felt very weak as he murmured into the Regulator duster, "whaat daa heeeelllll happp-aaaannnd?"

"Shit, shit, shit! I need to cauterize the artery, get me a transfusion quickly!" Doc Hoff pulled the duster off of Juan's face and looked into his eyes to see the pupils react; "shit! He's come back! Get some med – x! NOW!"

Juan felt time had slowed as he slipped back into darkness again. He woke up a few other times to see a light in his eyes, but all he wanted to do was sleep. A gnawing pain on his left side had woken him up again to Doc Hoff yelling at someone for more med – x because Alvarado was stirring again. When the Hispanic teen from rivet City, a member of the Brotherhood of Steel Intelligence Operative Services and a probationary Regulator to the Capital Wasteland, woke up again to see a mid – afternoon's sun shining through a window and framing the duster clad silhouette of Sonora Cruz in her traditional cowboy hat.

Sitting down in a chair in the corner of the room was Wesson 'Half – Face' Chambers. His legs were crossed at the knee, his bad leg over the good one. He wore his duster but the way he sat it was hidden under his ass and back. Chamber's arms were crossed in front of him, locked in place with his hands on his elbows. The metal mask still on his face, the brim of his heat over his eyes to ward off the sun as the rhythmic breathing indicated he was asleep.

Cruz noticed Juan was awake and moved closer. The probationary member opened his mouth to talk as Sonora handed him a glass of water. "You haven't used your voice in around a month. Yes, you have out for a month since the Showdown at Canterbury Commons. It's a tad cliché to me, but that is how it has been reported by locals, the Grayditch Guardian, and Galaxy News Radio. You had us worried there, Alvarado, I'm not going to sugar coat it.

Juan nodded as he sipped the water quietly, "you died several times on the operating table. Whether if it was Doc Hoff's skill, your will to live, or the god you pray to protecting you, you came back every single time." Sonora Cruz held a hand on Alvarado's good shoulder. "All three shots went through your combat armor. Some splinted on impact and the shards went into some vital organs. Doc Hoff thought he got all the part on the first go but a small sliver no more than half an inch in length was tucked behind your spleen.

Alvarado tried to sit up so he could feel the wound but Cruz held him down with unforeseen strength, "you are not to touch, scratch, or lick the incisions until they have healed. Doc's orders and mine too," the leader of the Regulators tried to smile but Juan wasn't in a laughing mood. "Hoff has confirmed you can live a comfortable life with the damage done to your organs. While you heal, you are at risk of infection, but the good doctor has promise to ensure that doesn't happen.

"As for your status in the Regulators, it is my privilege, Juan 'The Comeback Kid' Alvarado, noting your bravery and self-sacrifice in the face of overwhelming numbers of trained mercenaries to protect your fellow Regulators, local law enforcement, and innocent bystanders of Canterbury Commons to present you with your own custom duster marking you as a full member of the Capital Wasteland chapter of the Regulators. It is no small feat to put down seventeen Talon Company mercenaries and captured three for their crimes; especially outnumbered as you were with only two Regulators and a single town law enforcer. Both Dominic D'Ellsadro and Machete are recovering as well. We've reinforced the town with Regulators, and you had a request for a new partner."

"Who is it ma'am," asked Alvarado, his words coming to his throat easier now after the water.

"Don't ma'am me, Regulator," scolded Cruz playfully as she stood up from Alvarado's gurney, "I'll let your new partner introduce himself. Remember, you are equal to all other Regulators now, call me Sonora. Now your orders are to rest up and heal fast. I have big plans and need to have more Regulators of your caliber available. Good day, Regulators," Sonora bid farewell, kicking Wesson Chambers leg to make him wake up, "for God's sake, Chambers, look alive!"

Wesson jerked forward to see Sonora Cruz leaving, "thought she'd never leave," he croaked out in hoarse bark that was becoming his new voice since the incident. "The good ol' lady has been by your bed side for…two weeks now. You look like shit."

"Thanks," grumbled Juan as he squeezed the new leather duster.

Wesson snorted through his nostrils, "relax, kid, no one here would ever take a Regulator's duster. They dare not fuck with my partner."

"Why…did Sonora call me…The Comeback Kid," asked Alvarado.

"It's the nickname the public has given you, just like mine is Half – Face, people seem to be funny like that," chuckled Chambers as returned to his previous position. "It's not the reason I asked for you to be my partner."

"Is it because I look so good?" Juan joked; his complexion was still pale from the blood loss.

Wesson had a gruesome looking smile under his metal mask, "you got guts kid, sure most of them were leaking out of you, but you got what it takes. I figure someone is looking out for you up there and I rather have that luck around me. Now get some rest, Comeback Kid, your heard the chief's orders."

"I liked you better when you talked less," quipped Juan with a smirk, his eyelids already heavy.

"Even with my injury, I'm still a hell of a lot better looking than you," rejoined Chambers with a harsh laugh.


	9. Ghosts of Takoma

Disclaimer: I do not own Fallout, the Fallout Universe, nor any characters originating from the games of Fallout in publication or unreleased. This work of fiction does not, in any way, generate profit for the writer.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 9.) Ghosts of Takoma

Operative Lolli Pop of the Brotherhood of Steel splashed water on his face as the light flickered in the rest room of the underground bunker at Fort Bannister. Starring back at him in the dingy mirror was the dirty face of Sergeant Yao Guai of Talon Company. Deep cover was a learning experience. One in which Pop knew he needed to become Yao Guai to those he had infiltrated, or else risk failure. He traced the white talon emblem on his left breast with fingers cut, bruised, and dirty from constant training. His pensive moment broken by his squad's commanding officer.

The six feet and two inches tall Lieutenant Star – Dancer towered over Operative Pop, he was only five feet and seven inches, on a good day. The tendrils she called hair were still wet from her shower, Star – Dancer was only clothed in a piece of fabric that soaked the remaining moisture from her nude body. Without her armor on, Pop could see the full length of the tattoo that ran down her face, neck, shoulder, and even under the fabric. Traditions made the tribes from the old mountains unique. Lolli could see why now. Star – Dancer was appraising him.

"For all you have done Yao Guai, you are not impressive looking," her words were meant crudely, but did not come off as rude. "Amongst the Alleghany, you'd have not been allowed any wives," with that proclamation, Star – Dancer dropped her towel revealing herself to the inferior officer. She roughly approached him, her mouth searching his as her wide palms held the back of his head. Star – Dancer removed Pop's combat armor, pressing the kiss more, her tongue forcing its way into his mouth. Taken aback, Pop was stunned as his Lieutenant's hand coarsely went down his pants. It took a few awkward seconds before his commanding officer pushed him away.

"Uhm…," began Yao Guai/Lolli Pop, but was silenced as Lt. Star – Dancer slugged him in the face.

"Do you not find me worthy, dog?" She snarled, standing there with her legs shoulder length apart. Her breasts swaying as she readied another fist, depending on his answer.

"Fuck… what… I dunno?" Pleaded Pop as he rubbed his jaw, looking at the amazon that stood before him, "what makes you think you can do that to anyone? Shit!"

"You were softer than punga sauce," the insinuation was filled with hurt pride, gathering up her towel, Star – Dancer's initial excitement had turned into indignation.

"I…I don't know what you wanted from me. It's five in the fucking morning and now I have a splitting headache," complained the Operative, the blood vessels throbbing in his head.

"You act like you have never been with a woman," complained the Lieutenant as she walked away to her private room.

Pop turned back to the sink, splashing water on his face. Truth being, she wasn't too far off. In Little Lamplight, most kids experimented with each other. Playing doctor, or house, or just seeing what made boys and girls different. The female form didn't excite Pop as it did many of his friends in the caverns. He preferred operating on male patients, playing house with other boys, and so forth. However, there were more important things in his life than shacking up with the man of his dreams. Compared to the job for Brotherhood Intelligence Operative Services, people were difficult.

Looking at his reflection still, he could see the same person as always staring back at him. The person before was no longer just Lolli Pop, and he feared letting himself become Yao Guai. "Who the fuck are you," he whispered before he turned away. Putting on his combat armor, Pop knew in that moment what he was: nobody.

The visibility of the Second Scouts training methods shocked other units of Talon Company. Colonels, Captains, Majors, and Lieutenants would come and watch them train. Observations were noted by those that sought to excel, while other laughed and jeered as the Second Scouts ran exercises and courses. Pop paid them no attention. He just wanted his squad to be well trained.

Day after day, the Brotherhood Operative would drill the Second Scouts from the early morning to late in the evening. Ten mile runs in the wasteland, most of the scouts didn't even know what the distance of one mile was, caused many squad members to pass out from exhaustion. In the first week, more of the Second Scouts were seeing the medic for exhaustion or withdrawal symptoms than all of Talon Company for the past three years, combined. The moratorium on chems also put Pop on the sore side of most of his squad. However, try as he might, he could not make the unit completely dry of alcohol. The scouts did their best to not drink heavily in his presence and where they got it from, Pop did not know. Second Scouts were all rooming together, there was no privacy.

Within the first few weeks of training, a trader had arrived at the gates of Fort Bannister. The Second Scouts were training in the yard, sprints between rock markers. The Talon Company mercenaries needed physical condition, a prerequisite that never seemed to have been applied to them. Star – Dancer was yelling at the men and women to run faster, hitting those that lagged behind. Sergeants Gaines and Yao Guai stood together, a tension held between them. Gaines still did not trust the other mercenary.

"Heard you asked Commander Jabsco for this group to take back Takoma," said the older Sergeant. "I don't recall you being at that post."

"I wasn't," agreed Pop as he still looked at the men training.

"Then don't bring it up again," warned Gaines, a sneer on his face as his lips curled. "Many men escaped that cluster fuck of Cobb's and don't need green fucks like you to bring it up. Wait, we're missing one."

"I know, he's at the caravan," Pop pointed to the brahmin. "I think Takoma can be won back, no matter what others may think."

"It's a black mark on Talon Company," growled the Sergeant. "Cobb left the colors, the artillery, and the men at Takoma. Colonel Danziger saved my life and many others that day, when he forced us back here. A super mutant probably has wiped it's ass with the Talon colors."

"And you don't wish to put right what went wrong," commented Sgt. Yao Guai as he bit his inner cheek.

"The only thing wrong is you bringing up the worst day for many Talons," Gaines spat in the dirt, his phlegm was brown. "Fucking Skaagz."

"I'll get him," hissed Pop as he walked off as Lieutenant Star – Dancer stood with Gaines.

"You and Yao Guai look close," she commented, her bandolier jangling against her armor, a hawk in the sky making noise. "Found out anything else on him?"

Gaines kept his eyes on Yao Guai, Skaagz, and the merchant mercenary, "he confirmed that he wanted to take back Takoma, for lost honor."

"Commander Jabsco is very interested in him," remarked the Lieutenant as she took sight of the troublesome bird, her hand on the metal and wooden boomerang she carried. "Claims him to be worth more than he appears."

"What do you want me to do, LT?" The commanding officer was younger than Gaines, but he knew her prowess in battle.

"You are to keep an eye on him," she pulled the boomerang and threw it with a flick of her wrist. A few seconds passed as the hawk kept on squawking before it disappeared in a puff of feathers, the boomerang returned to her grasp, "I now know what you see lacking him, Sergeant."

Pop had the mercenaries a few miles away from Fort Bannister in the sands and rocks of the wasteland. He and Sergeant Gaines were looking over the squad as they dug a ditch. Jabsco had an idea to dump nuclear waste on the eastern side of the base. There was already a nuclear waste swamp on the westward approach which helped with base security. Things were changing in the Capital Wasteland, order was becoming more widespread. Grayditch had become impossible for any talon mercenary to enter wearing the colors of the company. Same went for Rivet City, Arefu, and Big Town.

The Family had increased security on the two frontier towns, putting 'shoot on sight' orders for all Talon Company mercenaries. One incident involving an official meeting, a flamethrower, and a seriously burnt Vance, led to the order from the charismatic head of The Family. Superstition still ran rampant with the ignorant. As a whole, Talon Company remained ignorant. Their backers paid to have them keep the wasteland lawless. Law was everywhere now, after two hundred years, Talon Company had failed their paymasters and not just themselves.

Black armor attracted the heat of the sun. The winter time chilled the air. Clear skies did not stop the sun's rays during this relatively mild season. Second Scouts did not take water as part of their conditioning. Two of the mercenaries looked like they were going to keel over from heat stroke. Donnely and Motel were equally staggering as they shoveled out the ditch. Motel stumbled into the way of Private Gauge. The jaundiced looking mercenary responded by pushing away the offending Private with a body check to the guts. Motel, no more than a young teenager, dropped to his feet and puked the contents of his stomach into the trench.

"Get back to work, M – M – Motel," yelled Gauge as she raised her shovel like an axe, "you're in my way!"

Sergeant Yao Guai jumped down into the trench, his hand quick to halt Gauge's shovel before crudely pitching her on her backside. Pop lifted Motel up to his feet and splashed some aqua pura on the teen's face. Lolli heard gravel moving behind. Private Gauge stood back up and swung the spade like an axe. Dodging the blade of the shovel, the Brotherhood of Steel Operative stepped back to protect Motel and his own physical form.

Sergeant Gaines watched contently as the jaundiced Private attacked her squad superior. Privates and corporals of the Second Scouts stood watch as their sergeant dodged the crazed private swinging a shovel. Pop tossed a handful of sand and gravel from the ditch into Gauge's eyes. She backed away, trying to brush the foreign objects digging into her eyes and blinding her temporarily. Lolli kicked the shovel from her grasp and the Talon Company private began to swing her fists wildly.

Operative Pop deflected the blows with his forearms. He thrust with short jabs into her chest, left fist, right fist, left fist, and right fist again. Sergeant Gaines, the corporals, and the privates were in shock as Yao Guai just kept hitting Gauge in the chest. The winded Private couldn't think with the pain in her eyes and continuous hits to her chest. Pop felt her form weaken and decided to end this spectacle. With his elbow, he hit Gauge in the ear. Everyone observing the fight thought time had slowed down. Gauge dropped to her knees in front of Sergeant Yao Guai. In her last bit of consciousness, she felt the throbbing of her ear, the sand in her eyes, and Lolli Pop's knee under her chin before darkness.

Private Gauge fell to the bottom of the ditch like a sack of potatoes. Sergeant Yao guai stood there as every private, corporal, and his fellow Sergeant. Brotherhood of Steel fighting techniques ranged in many different melee tactics. His knuckles were bleeding as he massaged his saw hands. Pop's chest was heaving as he looked them all in the eyes, seeing awe, fear, and oddly enough: respect.

"We are only as strong as our weakest member," he said simply as he tossed aqua pura onto Gauge's face from a canteen. She spluttered under the liquid and woke up, "some of us excel in different areas. Know where you are week, help those to make them stronger, and together the Second Scouts will be one unit."

Lolli Pop climbed out of the ditch to Gaines' watchful eye, "where did you learn to fight like that?"

"Around," replied Pop as he emptied his canteen on his bleeding knuckles.

Lieutenant Star – Dancer walked up to the trench, seeing the battered Gauge and heat stroked Motel, "did I miss much?"

"Just another of Yao Guai's lessons," answered Gaines.

"And what were you teaching my men, Yao Guai," her hand on the boomerang, holding it tightly.

"The importance of working together to achieve the tasks set to us, ma'am," responded Pop; his cheeks were red as he thought about the bathroom incident they shared.

"I think Private Gauge knows the concept very well now," jested Gaines, the female private was still heard coughing as her lungs were getting back in order.

Star – Dancer released her grip on the Alleghany boomerang, "we have just received orders from Commander Jabsco. Seems our sponsors want us to stop the Family from gaining more ground outside of Arefu and Big Town. The old raider post at Kaelyn's has been taken over by the Family, overseeing the old world bridge and keeping a trade route free for those towns. We're to kill them all and leave them a message in blood."

"I know I've been pushing for getting this squad into action, but these…kids…don't know what they are doing," pointed out Pop as he pointed to the corporals and privates in the trench.

"You were all gung-ho for taking Takoma, a little rad on the Family ruffles your feathers," sneered Gaines.

"Listen, if we put them in the field right now, we may not bring all of them back," warned Pop, Corporals Ryker and Carrick were listening in as he raised his voice. "Takoma could be scouted by me, a few members, and Cobb. After seeing these guys work, we'll need a full scale force to beat down the Family, let alone super mutants."

"Do not mention that traitor's name!" Sergeant Gaines scolded his peer.

"He was able to get out undetected, therefore we can get in the same way," rejoined Sergeant Yao Guai, his finger in Gaines' well-worn face.

"Get that fucking finger out of my face or lose it," growled the grizzled Talon Company Sergeant.

"Stop it no, both of you," ordered Star – Dance as she stared them down from her position of height of and power, "Commander Jabsco has given orders and we are to follow. Understood?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," agreed the Sergeants in unison.

"Get my men in order, we move out in two days," the Alleghany tribeswoman walked back to the bunk, unimpressed with her men and officers.

Operative Pop ran up to her, "Lieutenant Star – Dancer, I…have a question."

"Yes, Sergeant Yao Guai," the tone in her voice clearly showed she was annoyed with this man she viewed as inferior.

"I wanted to apologize for the other day," he began but his squad leader stopped him.

"Forget it," Star – Dancer said as she continued to walk away.

"No, I just wanted to make sure…we're okay," he motioned between the two of them with his hands as he walked with Star – Dancer.

"There is nothing between us, you are my Sergeant," she stated directly. "When I give order, you are to follow them. Commander Jabsco has shown an interest in you, it will fade. There were others before you, there will be more after you, and until you wear the silver bars you will listen to me."

"Have I upset you in anyway, LT," inquired Lolli as he kept his eyes on hers.

"You've got two seconds to get out of my face and train those mercenaries," threatened the Lieutenant as she walked away with two fingers in the air, "two days, Sergeant, you have two days."

Operative Lolli Pop had been briefed on the plan for the scouting and sabotage of the Kaelyn's Bed and Breakfast as Sergeant Yao Guai of Talon Company. Prior to the Family taking up residence it had been held by raiders not affiliated with Evergreen Mills that had murdered the previous Independants. Information from the sponsors indicated that the Family had moved into the establishment in an effort to secure the trade routes of Big Town and Arefu. Commander Jabsco indicated that he felt the Family was there for more than what the sponsors were representing, though the Talon Company leader didn't voice his ideas. Pop did not know who these monetary backers were. The most he could glean was that contracts were taken from a middleman agency known as Littlehorn & Associates and that, for nearly two hundred years, these backers paid Talon Company well to keep the Capital Wasteland lawless. Littlehorn & Associates gave the specifics of each contract, detailing the information and being the link between Talon Company and the pool of wealth that supplied it. As far as the Brotherhood of Steel Operative could tell, these middlemen were little more than another wasteland outfit like Talon Company. Allistair Tenpenny was one of the few direct clients of Talon Company, but for his needs he was only a minor contractor.

Part of Pop's mission with the Brotherhood of Steel was to discover where the capital came from and where the orders originated. Pop was going to have Yao Guai rise in rank and uncover this information. He looked at the faces of the mercenaries of the Second Scouts, knowing that he would rise because of these men and women. Their lives, deaths, and actions would determine how quickly he would be promoted. Sergeant Yao Guai stood up, clinked his glass with a fork gaining the attention of the Second Scouts. Their conversations quickly died.

"Tomorrow we go forth on our first mission," he looked each of them in the eyes, starring especially long at Lieutenant Star – Dancer and Sergeant Gaines, "the Second Scouts almost died out at the Battle of the Crossroads. Other men and women sat where your asses are now. Death is inevitable. This does not mean you should fear it. As Talons, especially as the Second Scouts, we embrace it as part of our everyday lives. Let's all try and make it back from the mission, but never forget the fallen." He ended the speech by pouring a bit of his drink on the cafeteria floor.

"For the fallen," agreed Private Axel as he toasted his glass of aqua pura and poured some on the ground. Kirkland said the same as she poured her drink. Soon the whole table said it in unison, "for the fallen," and poured out some of their water.

Star – Dancer mouthed the words and poured as Gaines sat with his arms crossed in contempt. Pop returned to his seat as the Lieutenant leaned over. Her breath smelt rotten and exuded a noxious heat that made the Operative's eyes water. He steadied himself, trying hard not to make a face.

"Bit dramatic, Yao Guai," she observed dryly, her mouth soon filled with food again.

"I like to sugar coat expectations," deadpanned the Operative as he ate his food, his stomach summersaulting.

"You make it sound like all of us are going to die," the gruff words came from the usually silent Corporal Ryker. He adjusted his eye patch, and itch in his orbital socket, "we aren't all green."

"Anything can happen, we aren't immortal," answered Sergeant Yao Guai as he drank his water, "the only thing that can live on forever is a legend."

"There are no more legends," scoffed Gaines as he sipped a drink from a flask, clearly imbibing on alcohol.

"The Lone Wanderer is a legend," corrected Lolli Pop.

"He avoided our hit teams very well," Corporal Carrick commented, her former position was as a private in an assassination squad.

"The Lone Wanderer was no legend, he was just a man," dismissed Gaines as he ate and drank, a dribble of Salisbury steak on his chin.

"Any man, woman, or squad can become legendary as long as their actions live on," stated the Brotherhood of Steel Operative as he drank more water. "Talon Company is a legend. Galvin Cobb is a legend. Both are for the wrong reasons and the worst characteristics of people in the wasteland. It can be better."

"Are you bad mouthing Talon?" Star – Dancer would not stand for such insubordination.

"Not at all, I love Talon Company and I am true to the squad, Commander, and colors." Pop affirmed with a cold stare, "but some of our history is a mix of honorable service and less than exemplary morals. I love making cap over fist, but I rather do it by protecting people, places, and ideals because that will continue to pay. The gravy train we're on right now is not sustainable."

"The protection racket doesn't pay well," Ryker shook his head.

"Look at the Family, or the raiders in Megaton, or even the Brotherhood of Steel makes good caps for their rackets." Carrick stated, agreeing with Pop.

"Fuck those amateurs," snarled Gaines as Star – Dancer and Ryker agreed.

Pop smiled and pointed out, "aqua pura is free, but the second hand trade of it is very profitable."

"Which I why we hit those fucks constantly," concurred Gaines as he absentmindedly drew a circle with condensation on the table. "The long distant traders are the best to hit for aqua pura because they aren't expected back for a while."

"Imagine if we had those long hall contracts for the wet stuff," offered Pop as he played with this food on the metal plate. "No group is willing to ship it over land all the way to the Eastern Shore, the Pitt, or down south to Broken Banks."

"That shit would be worth more than ammunition and guns," exclaimed Corporal Carrick.

"Talon doesn't do shipping or transport," countered Ryker, taking a swig of his alcohol.

"I'm not saying we cover the capital of shipping ourselves, but what is to stop us from providing security as a privately operated armed force?" His words were treasonous and Star – Dancer was quick to rein him back.

"Watch your nest few words, Sergeant," her eyes cold but Pop was still learning to read her expressions.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything to offend our Great Commander. I know we all hate Cobb, but these are his ideas that I have given a lot of thought about." The Brotherhood of Steel Operative knew where the future of Talon had to be, and the plan was to wedge himself in the middle of it from the start. "I may have spent too much time with him in the wastes."

"Fucking traitor, I hope the Commander puts him down soon," Gaines roared, spittle on his lower lip.

"Why hasn't the Commander already done that," asked Carrick to the Lieutenant.

"Grunt, you are not to question the Commander's actions, ever. Is that clear?" Star – Dancer's squinted eyes bore a hole through the lowly corporal.

Pop held out his hand as Carrick was about to verbally defend herself, "insubordination is a terrible reason to be shot, Corporal."

"Should take your own advice," remarked Gaines, the conversations continued as no one noted the increasingly drunken state of some members. That night Pop took administrative guard duty as the squad slept. He walked the barracks as other units and squads drank, used chems, and gambled into the night. The moral code he tried to emplace on his soldiers had not fully penetrated and stopped with them. In Talon Company somethings never changed. Tired, he began to walk back to his bunk as Corporal Carrick approached him in the hallway outside of the Second Scouts barracks.

"What are you doing out of bed?" He hissed as he pulled her aside and out of sight, "you have to stop disobeying orders."

"Sorry Sarge," Pop was shocked by the sincerity in her voice. "I…what you said about Cobb's vision…is it a possibility?"

"I don't rightly know, but I can hope, yea?" He offered as a non – committal response. "It's a great thought though, not having to murder for caps."

"Sergeant Gaines and Lieutenant Star – Dancer are against you and are trying to dig up dirt," informed the Corporal, as if she was informing him of some grave offense.

Pop paused for a while, his face displaying no emotion, "thank you for letting me know," he said finally and on the next breath added, "do you know who else feels that way?"

"The men are split, Sarge," confirmed the Corporal as she shifted nervously on her feet. "Most didn't know too much about you… but how you dealt with Gauge…well that was just plain amazing."

"Nothing amazing about it," replied the man playing Sergeant Yao Guai, "tons of training and practice. That is why I push you all so hard."

"Are we expected to be able to punch as fast as you," the excitement notable in Carrick's voice.

"Punching faster or stronger is meaningless without using this," he tapped his head to signify the brain. "But perhaps you should tell me who I can count on my squad, Corporal."

"I'm in your corner for certain, so too are Axel, Kirkland, and Donnelly. Ryker is friends with Gaines; No – Where and Star – Dancer are tribesmen. Skaagz and Gauge hate you, bluntly." The last comment came as no surprise to Operative Pop.

"I take it Ibao and Motel have remained silent on who they prefer," inferred the Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

"Ibao does say anything," Carrick looked pensive as she chose her words carefully, "Motel is too scared to take a side. Afraid of Star – Dancer, Gaines, Commander Jabsco, and now he is even afraid of you."

"Motel," Lolli mused as he remembered what it felt like to be the weak link of a team and how it got him in his current position. "Does any of the team talk with him?"

"No, no one seems interested in him," answered the Corporal as Pop fumbled around for something in his pockets. It turned out to be the face of an ancient wristwatch on a string.

"Carrick, it's late and we have a long walk for tomorrow. Try and get some sleep," the Talon Company Corporal understood the message and began to walk into the barracks. "Oh, Corporal, thank you for the information."

"You're welcome, Sarge," replied Corporal Carrick with a half-smile.

Kaelyn's Bed & Breakfast used to be a quaint get away for couples from the hustle and bustle of Washington, D.C. After the Great War, the bed and breakfast one of the few remaining buildings outside of the immediate area of what became Big Town. Located adjacent to a bridge that lead directly to Arefu and Big Town, it was the most level and fastest route for caravans, traders, and wanderers. A myriad of people and creatures had housed themselves in the wooden of walls. Battles had been fought for that two story building with a stone basement and white picket fence. More recently, the Family had battled the Independants of Evergreen Mills for the location to secure trade routes to their two protected towns.

The Family was a new pseudo religious organization that few knew. Two towns knew the Family intimately. Arefu and Big Town had entered agreements with the secretive cult for protection. Vance was the leader of the Family, and the architect of the two towns' protection for blood donation. Not many knew what they did the blood, but rumors from the Family and the two towns inspired fear. These rumors were the only so – called facts that Talon Company had to go on. It was this information that led to the scouting report of only observing in small numbers at night because they were considered nocturnal. It was also thought that the Family had an improved sense of smell, so the rock cliff that looked over the bed and breakfast was out of the question as it was upwind.

Instead, the Second Scouts created a low profile lean – to camp south east of the Family guard post that was purposefully downwind. The temporary camp was also close enough to Springvale and Megaton that if the wind changed those settlements smells would mask their own. Pop chose the spot and had to defend his reasoning to Lieutenant Star – Dancer and Sergeant Gaines. He also devised the scouting system for them to use while on this operation. Small parties would be used to observe the outpost, namely in teams of two or three. One of the Sergeants, or the Lieutenant herself, would always be leading a small party as training leading. When they advanced in training, than the higher level officers would leave the teams to operate on their own. Commander Jabsco wanted results. He was banking on the Second Scouts and put the pressure on Lieutenant Star – Dancer. Sergeant Yao Guai knew that he and Sergeant Gaines wanted to give the mercenaries a learning experience. The two wills were not mutually exclusive, but they pervaded the minds of the officers with different weighted values.

Private Kirkland was cooking Pork N' Beans on a hot plate for the squad lunch. The lean – to's were nothing more than dirty clothes and fabric stretched on three sticks that had a single slopped roof hitting the earth. Dirt, sand, and mud had been rubbed into the slopped roofs to blend them into the ground and hide the encampment. The tents allowed for moment in the camp, but with the long wait periods between scouting parties most mercenaries chose to rest and relax. It was the first time they had since their training began. Some of the Talons played card games or dice to pass the time. A small few played with their guns, cleaning them, maintaining them, or trick spinning the firearms like old cowboys back in Western dime novels. Talon Company bred no Lone Rangers, Red Ryders, or John Waynes. Instead, they were a company of Billy the Kids, Jesse James, and Belle Starrs. _The kids of Little Lamplight used to play a game called 'Cowboys and Indians' but no one really know what those words meant_, thought Pop as he walked over to Motel as the kid sat alone with a piece of wood whittling away.

"Been doing that long, Motel," asked Pop as he took up a seat next to the young Private.

"Just…just something I've always…done, sire," he stammered nervously, the weeks of training had not given him any confidence.

"I'm no sir, just Sarge will do," laughed Yao Guai as he tried to be jovial with his team member, relaxing as he sat back.

"S…Sarge, did you want something," asked the Private nervously as he looked at his squad Sergeant.

"Yes, I did. I wanted to know how you were getting along with the rest of the team," Pop knew that the Second Scouts was coming down to who he could rely on for support, he was determined to win this kid over. "You tend to be a bit of a loner, huh, Motel?"

"I...I like people," defended the timid Private with a face younger than his fifteen years of age, "I just never…never get a voice with the guys."

"The talented are often not recognized by the commonplace," commented Pop with a smile as Motel gave him a confused look. "You have a talent, Motel, in that few people notice you. It may sound bad, but for a Second Scout is the ability to slip in and out without raising alert. I see the makings of a good scout in you, Private."

"Th…thank you, Sarge," the inflection at the end was read by Pop as a question, even though it was only Motel's pubescent voice cracking.

"You're on the right track, and I want you to balance out those that are on the wrong path. Specifically, Private Skaagz," Yao Guai had brought it up with Star – Dancer and Gaines, they were only quick to agree because they thought it would end in failure. "That wart doesn't know his asshole from his elbow, but you can teach him otherwise, Motel."

"Sarge, Sk… Skaagz and I …well we just don't get along," stated the Private, then fell to silence as Pop raised his hand to quiet him.

"Skaagz is in need of your help," Yao Guai knew he could not force unity in his ranks, but at least they could work together.

"But he hates me," complained Motel, the back of Yao Guai's hand stinging his jaw.

"Young kids and the simple minded will waste words on complaints. A Second Scout does not!" Scolded Sergeant Yao Guai, the Brotherhood Operative switching into the harden personality.

"I'm…I'm sorry, sir. It's…It's just…he made me eat dirt…in training," the Private recalled an earlier incident that had occurred.

"You chose to eat dirt. Sure, Skaagz held your face down in the stuff, but you chose to open your mouth and chew it." Pop continued to rebuke the young mercenary with a stone cold face, "you had a choice, and you chose to give in."

"And I should have chosen death," the indignation in his tone stopped Motel's stammer for the first time in the whole conversation.

"Yes," Lolli Pop's answer was quick, "we never typically get to choose our deaths, they just happen. Wouldn't you rather die for something, like pride or honor, than for nothing?"

Operative Pop left the Private on that thought, joining another of the squad. Private Ibao and Sergeant Yao Guai sat for a time in silence, allowing Pop to collect his thoughts. Ibao never talked, he heard and understood everything said to him, but not once did he say a word. The Brotherhood Operative just sat there in silence with a man he hardly knew and wished he could know him better. Meanwhile, in a small huddle around some dingy cards, a growing pile of caps, and watered down whiskey sat Corporal Carrick with Privates Axel, Gauge, and No – Where. The privates all noticed when the Corporal would strain her neck to get a glimpse of Sergeant Yao Guai.

"If you turn your head any farther, I'm willing to bet your head falls off, Carr," teased Gauge as she showed a full house, queens over sevens.

"What," asked Carrick as she combed her long hair on one side back with her hand, the other side was shaved short, nearly to scalp.

"A crush on Yao Guai is well beneath you," ribbed the jaundiced Private as she made a rude motion with her hand and tongue to Axel. "Carr wants to such the Sarge's meat stick dry."

"Better than spreading her legs for any merc with a prick," quipped Axel as he folded his hand and nudged Carrick with his elbow. "I swear, Gauge, you keep the medics stocked on pre – war meds just to take care of your… situation."

"You weren't this talkative about my 'situation' a week ago," laughed Gauge as she raised the pot for the next hand. "Then again, you can hardly talk with your mouth there!"

"Lieutenant says Yao Guai is no man," No – Where's voice was monotone, his Alleghany tribal heritage more evident than Star – Dancer's as he still spoke in their grammar.

"Whatcha mean," the Corporal's eyebrows were raised at the corners.

No – Where folded his hand and tapped his two index fingers together, Axel held a hand over his mouth as Gauge hissed, "oh shit, really?"

"Maybe Star – Dancer is not his type," Carrick offered, however the doubt was on her face.

"Hell, Star – Dancer is my type," exclaimed Axel as No – Where gave him a sour look.

"She is physically well," agreed the tribesman, his frown indicating there was an unspoken issue with Star – Dancer.

"The guys have it, Carrick," settled Guage with a wide smile and laughed, "he is either light in the pants or for the other team."

"Ain't no bigger cock fiend in Talon than you, Gauge," the backhanded compliment made the sickly looking girl punch Axel in the shoulder while smiling.

"Too bad there ain't any _big_ offerings in this squad," teased the girl as Axel rubbed his shoulder.

"What the fuck you talking about," yelled Axel as he pushed up a little pretending to stand up, getting ready to drop his pants. "I'm all man!"

"She not deny that," No – Where's voice broke its monotone for a second, a scoff underlying his words. He raised his right eye brow high, "she say it is not enough man for her. No put it away."

"I fucking hate you all," Axel barked as he sat back down and drank a fair amount of whiskey.

Sergeant Gaines moved to the group playing poker, the laughter died down quickly. "Privates Axel and No – Where, on me now. We are to relieve Star – Dancer and Donnelly."

"Sir, yes, sir," agreed the two privates as they grabbed their gear.

Gaines peaked at Gauge's cards, a Cheshire smile on his mouth, "you two owe me big, I just saved your asses from losing many caps."

"Sarge," cried out the beautiful jaundiced Private in feigned hatred, "how will I increase my wages with you blabbing?"

"Maybe some actual soldiering," joked the Talon Company Sergeant as the three men began to walk away. "Or from what I hear, you should be charging entrance fees."

Three mercenaries in black combat armor made their way to the forward operating position. This small post was a small lean – to encampment just large enough for three people to fit in cover that required the Talons to crouch. A flat level of dirt was in the middle of the advance camp served as the tablet to draw possible floor plans and mission objectives. Second Scouts were required to memorize mission objectives and maps. They had all already committed the major road ways that still existed to memory. Reconnaissance was their main goal, but Commander Jabsco wanted them to take or kill the members of the Family. If one Second Scout was killed, it could not jeopardize the mission. Gaines sat there with Axel and No – Where, switching off binoculars as they watched the former bed and breakfast. The Family had repaired the holes in the walls and laid out Jersey barriers around the outpost. Gaines was curious as to how they could move such heavy items from a long distance away. The squad had already completed a lot of the reconnaissance, but was nowhere near ready for raid. Any armed conflict for the scouts had to be perfect, decisive, and precise or else they would be massacred.

Two more days passed, the mercenaries getting antsy as the Lieutenant and Sergeants kept them waiting for action. Pop did not like the circumstances they faced, the outpost that was Kaelyn's Bed & Breakfast was too well fortified. The Family was not a bunch of amateurs. He observed that they were trained well. Merchants other than those from Canterbury Commons were stopped and searched before entering the area of the two towns. Pop used a grenade on a wire to test the Family's tactics. He set it off a few yards from the old bed and breakfast.

Instantly, upon hearing the noise of the explosion a defense procedure was enacted. Metal shudders that had been installed on the windows shut tight. The members fell into cover at the house, a few taking cover at the Jersey barriers facing the explosion. Glints from telescopic lens showed the sniper locations on the perches of the nest. The building had been refurbished. All the holes had been patched over and reinforced. Pop wished he could hear how they communicated because interrupting those lines would be beneficial for the scouts. As the mission stood at that moment, an assault on the outpost would end in defeat of the Second Scouts. Failure could mean a shooting squad arranged by Commander Jabsco. That night, they all need to make a strategy or start digging their graves.

"We'd have to breach here and here at the same time," indicated Gaines as he drew x's on the dirt. "From there, we'll have to clear room – by – room."

"Do you know what it looks like inside," asked Sergeant Yao Guai as he looked Gaines in the eye and seeing no reaction continued, "I didn't think so. We're guessing it is just the guards we've seen. Perhaps, they have a garrison in there as well. Or rigged the place to explode? There are too many unknowns."

"The men need to move, and Commander Jabsco wants the Family checked," Gaines spat back angrily.

"There is no way to attack that place head on and survive," warned Pop, shoving his finger in Gaines' face. "Half of our squad will die before we even get to the door based on your plan. They have two snipers on the roof, here and here," he jammed his fingers in the dirt to mark the nests. "By the time we are at the doors, the battle is already lost."

"What do you suggest, Yao Guai, or do you just object to Gaines' plan," Lieutenant Star – Dancer kept her eyes on the mapped out structure.

"The place is a fortress, there is little point to attack it," Pop was being pragmatic.

"So you wish to disobey a direct order from the Commander," the idea of dereliction of duty disgusted Gaines as he held himself as a good Talon Sergeant.

"As a loyal Talon Company mercenary, I would never suggest disobeying a direct order from Commander Jabsco. However, between fulfilling and order correctly and completing it stupidly. I will go with the smart way. What you suggest is plain murder," defended Yao Guai, his nostrils flaring out. "My vote is to wait, it may not be timely, but it is the safest way."

"With all this time waiting we risk them finding us," returned the veteran mercenary as he destroyed the dirt drawn map etched into the ground.

"Enough, the two of you," ordered Star – Dancer as she leaned back with her arms crossed. "Yao Guai is right. There is too little information, the Commander may not like it, but I rather the attack done right than done wrong."

"I can't believe you're siding with this fucked," griped Gaines as he looked at the Lieutenant with his index and middle fingered pointed at Lolli Pop.

"Sergeant Yao Guai, Sergeant Gaines and I need to speak privately." The words barely escaped her clench teeth.

"Yes, ma'am," Operative Lolli Pop of the Brotherhood of Steel stepped out of the covered lean – to and looked at the squad quickly getting back to business and pleasure in the camp. The occasional glance shot in his direction alerted Pop to the fact that they heard the fight between the sergeants. He dropped down at his own personal lean – to and took out a handmade journal. Star Paladin Bael and Scribe Yearling knew the code he wrote in. He'd just have to leave it at the dead drops for them to get the messages. Corporal Carrick interrupted him from his record keeping.

"Are we to attack soon," she asked, curious to the book that had odd shaped pages bound into it from various sources of paper, magazines, and worn books.

"Eventually," sighed Pop as he closed the book and clasped it with a lock before tucking it into his personnel ruck sack, "but not today, thank our lucky fucking stars."

"The squad is ready and willing for a fight," she commented, as a loyal Corporal to her direct superior.

"Those that look for fights never win them," Pop smiled inwardly at himself as he had unknowingly quoted a teaching from the Brotherhood of Steel, "unless well prepared mentally and technologically. We don't have either."

"But we have the element of surprise," observed the Corporal, showing that she paid attention to the words of Sergeant Yao Guai.

"A great tactic in the first few minutes," agreed Lolli as he looked down and shook head, "but the Family has planned for surprise attacks."

The Brotherhood of Steel Operative held the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he was lost in deep thought, "Sarge, you can tell me your thoughts, you know," egged on Carrick, wanting insight into this man, whom she admired.

Pop sucked back in his tongue and smiled lightly, "in Talon Company, ideas travel up for others to claim, not the alternative way," his face twitched as he sneer came out over his fleeting thought on blowing up Kaeylin's Bed & Breakfast as the best solution. Carrick tilted her head in confusion as Pop shook his skull from side to side, "never mind, Corporal."

The late night shift watching the Family's outpost consisted of Privates Skaagz, Ibao, and Motel. Star – Dancer, Gaines, and Yao Guai thought they would be harmless enough just observing. Ibao exemplified this by napping as the other two kept watch. Skaagz and Motel were noting the patrols. The Family welcomed both men and women into their ranks, and it seemed the two guards were hitting it off nicely. As one male Family member led another female back into the outpost without posting a replacement patrol, Skaagz nudged Motel. The young recruit looked at the wart faced man and mouthed the word 'What'.

"This is our chance for a closer look," Skaagz said eagerly as he shifted some gravel underfoot.

"We were told to just observe," Motel hissed back but Skaagz was already on his way to the hole in the guards' parameter. The young private looked at the sleeping Ibao and hesitated before following the wart covered private down to the outpost. "Wait up!"

Motel slid to a stop at the unguarded Jersey barrier with Skaagz, "quiet down, choo fuck."

The words were barely audible to the young Talon Company mercenary as he adjusted his loose fitting helmet, wincing at the stabbing pain of stones in his boots, "this is s – s – stupid, Skaagz," he stuttered.

"No one asked you to come, squirt," shot back the greasy haired mercenary, "go back to the camp and cry like a baby, why doncha?"

"Seriously, this not a g – g – good idea," warned Motel as Skaagz slipped passed the barrier stepping into the open courtyard. Motel was at the barrier reaching out for his fellow mercenary, which was halfway to the Family's outpost.

"Ya see, M – M – Motel, easy peasy," whispered Skaagz.

The young private was about to reply when three sets of flood lights turned on staggering Skaagz as his pupils contracting caused momentary blindness. Motel ducked behind the Jersey barrier. He didn't see it but heard several shots of automatic rifles hitting the gravel covered ground. The loud bursts of gunshots stopped, his ears were still throbbing as he peeked around the barrier to see Skaagz huddled in a fetal position as three Family members came up to the wart covered private. Motel couldn't hear what the Family members were saying right away, but it became clear when they took Skaagz's rifle and lifted him up to drag him in the Bed and Breakfast.

"Emily is going to want to talk with you," the young Talon mercenary could make out from a Family member, who continued, "all those marks you and your friends have been leaving for a week. How could we not notice you?"

"Aww, shit! I think he pissed on me," complained a female Family member as she let go of Skaagz and he hit the ground roughly.

"Pick him up, Shoshanna," ordered the Family member who made the previous comment, "we do not treat our prisoners that way!"

The lights were kept on as they walked into the outpost. Motel kept still and as silent as he could, the Private waited for his chance to escape from the illuminated courtyard. Skaagz was taken prisoner by the Family and the reconnaissance mission of the Second Scouts was jeopardized. Motel could only guess what was being done to him as he slowly made his way back to the spotting post. Ibao had slept through it all. Awaken only with the young Private's violently shaking him. The silent man opened his eyes to see the flushed face of Motel as he gasped out the news. Ibao, taciturn as ever, gathered camp and began to return to the main Second Scout post, Motel faithfully following him.

Sergeant Yao Guai was the first to notice them, and the first to hear how Skaagz royally fucked up the operation. He presented the two of them to Lieutenant Star – Dancer and Sergeant Gaines. Star – Dancer's face did not betray a mark of surprise, though she paused long enough to collect her thoughts. Gaines, on the other hand, began to rip into both Motel and Ibao for not stopping Skaagz. The Alleghany tribeswoman stopped him with a stern look.

"Privates, you are dismissed," she ordered as Pop crossed his arms in front of his chest, "now we are forced to act, Sergeant. Don't you agree?"

"Chock it up to coincidence," agreed Pop with sarcasm, "but the goal has changed to recovering Skaagz."

"Fuck that little shit," snarled Gaines, "the Family has probably killed him already."

"Gaines, he's still a soldier of ours," retorted Lolli as he began to think aloud, "in their position, I'd want to know more about who has been watching the outpost."

"Skaagz doesn't know anything," dismissed Star – Dancer.

"Yes, so when they press him for information he won't be able to say anything." Lolli pointed out, "we've lost the element of surprise, but we can still use misdirection." He pointed to the hand drawn map in the dirt, "do a frontal assault like originally planned, but use cover and take unfocused shots to keep them in cover. The whole point is to confuse them and that is when I slip into the back to get Skaagz."

"We can take down their whole outpost," suggested Gaines.

"We may lose only two of three people at worst my way, including my own life. Your plan gets us all killed," countered Pop.

Star – Dancer asked, "you think you can sneak in alone and take Skaagz out of there?"

"Getting in will be easy, getting out is another story," Pop knew he'd have to move fast if he wanted to survive.

Star – Dancer thought for a moment, she looked at Gaines and they had a silent conversation, "okay, Yao Guai. But if it looks like you can't save him…."

"Understood," nodded Pop as the stare shared between Lt. Star – Dancer and Sgt. Gaines filled him with dreadful curiosity. "I'll need thirty minutes to get in and out."

The Lieutenant turned to Sergeant Gaines, "get our squad into formation."

Lolli Pop was dressed in all black, from his combat armor and boots right to the charcoal of the campfire smeared on his cheeks. He kept one of his semi – automatic ten millimeter pistols holstered. The other pistol was held in a two handed grip. They had timed the attack to the minute. Before even the first shot had been fired, Pop had snuck to one of the doors avoiding the snipers' watchful gaze. Tightening his grip on the pistol, he kicked the wooden door in with a loud crack, the bolt lock snapping from the frame. At that same moment the first shot hit the far side of the outpost. He needed the distraction to last thirty minutes.

Two Family members came to investigate the door as the others went into lockdown mode. Pop took them out with four shots. Two each in the chest at center mass where the vital organs would be. If they were wearing armor they could live with a few broken ribs, but the pain would keep them on the ground. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative did not waste time worrying on if these two people lived or died. He needed to find Skaagz and get out of Kaelyn's Bed & Breakfast. Dull thuds and occasional shakes that caused the whole building to tremble alerted him to the battle going on outside. Lolli made his way into the basement slowly stepping so he did not creak the ancient wooden floor boards and stairs.

Hanging from the cellar ceiling were meat hooks and chains, a favored decoration of raiders, Independants of Evergreen Mills, and cannibals. In the middle of the room sat Private Skaagz, face beaten and bloodied. His sleeve was torn open, a long gash letting blood trickle into a metal bucket. Each drop making a ping against the side of the pale. A table was set against the far wall with many tools, blades, and other implements of torture were a lone bald figure hunched over. Pop quickly made his way behind the man, avoiding each chain and gestured for Skaagz to remain quiet. The Operative placed the pistol to the man's back, his frame stiffened as he came to realize what was happening.

"Don't turn around, friend," warned Sergeant Yao Guai as he unclipped his other gun from the holster, a gun in each hand now.

"You realize you are fucking with the Family, right;" the question was more of a statement.

"I'm just here to take that boy home, now we can do it the easy way or…." The Family member moved to try and overpower Pop, who struck him on the crown of his bald skull with loud crack, "or the hard way. Here, Private, can you hold a gun?"

"Not the left…Those…fuckers drank me blood… I can't fuck believe it," Skaagz was missing several teeth and whistled as he talked.

"Here, let me get that," Pop cut the cords that bound the Talon Company mercenary to the chair and used it as a tourniquet to halt the flow of blood. "Can you walk?"

"Of course I can, I ain't a gimp," replied the Private as he waivered when he stood up, because of blood loss, "I guess no. Cor a'mighty, choo gonna have to carry me, Sarge."

"When things couldn't get worse," mumbled Pop in a sigh. He leant down to hold Skaagz by his left arm and left leg of his shoulder. "You hold that gun in your right hand and fire at anything that moves, got it?"

At the front of the Family's outpost, Corporal Carrick crouched with Axel, Ibao, Donnelly and Motel as they exchanged volleys of gunfire. The distraction needed thirty minutes and based on Carrick's time piece, an old hand me down of her family, it was nearing the twentieth minute. Ibao tossed over a bouquet of grenades that shook the metal reinforcements of the compound. Private Gauge ran over to their fortified position.

"LT has asked us to fall back in sets of two," she reported, dirt on her jaundiced cheeks.

"It's too soon," yelled back the Corporal over the gunfire, worried about Sergeant Yao Guai.

"I dunno what to tell you, LT's orders," Gauge held as she rejoined Star – Dancer's position.

"Fucking shit!" Swore Carrick as she thought, _Star – Dancer and Gaines want to leave Yao Guai and Skaagz to die_, "we need to do something!"

"What can we do," Donnelly asked as he changed out a clip, "but we certainly can't stay here!"

"We switch to the backside," suggested Private Axel as he packed up his weapons and kit, "they told us to bug out, bit not to return to camp, right?"

"You heard the plan, back out by two's and hustle over to the backside to cover Sarge," ordered Carrick as she knelt and gave covering fire for the privates.

Operative Lolli Pop huffed heavily from the exertion of having taken Skaagz out of the cellar and to the first floor. In that time the building shaking explosions and gunfire stopped. The fight had ended too soon. Footfalls told of the Family members checking on their two rear guards. Skaagz opened fired on two Family members, missing them but forcing them to duck for cover. Pop turned and fired two rounds as he made haste for the door. Bullets were flying past him as he ran with the private bouncing on his shoulder. He passed the doorway into the courtyard to hear the best sound.

Machine gunfire and semiautomatic bursts hit the back façade of Kaelyn's Bed & Breakfast. Privates Axel, Ibao, Donnelly, and Motel were firing on the facility under the orders of Corporal Carrick. Pop ran to them with Skaagz still bouncing on his shoulders. They fell back in two's again following the Sergeant as he ran all the way to the encampment. Lieutenant Star – Dancer and Sergeant Gaines were surprised to see Private Skaagz and Sergeant Yao Guai alive, along with several of the Second Scouts. Pop slumped down at his lean-to by the fireside. After the remaining Second Scouts had caught their breath, Corporal Carrick handed the Brotherhood Operative a stiff drink of moonshine that Skaagz was known for smuggling. He wiped his sweating brow, _the Hero of Talon indeed_, he thought with a laugh.

"UNACCEPTABLE!" Commander Jabsco bellowed as he threw a mug against the wall, shattering it into pieces. He stood up, his brows furrowed as he kicked over a chair. "Do you know the position this puts me in with our backers?"

"We didn't mean to fail, Commander," Star – Dancer commented, her insolence answered with a backhand holding a pistol that busted her lip wide open.

"You were chosen to succeed!" Jabsco paced as he became enraged, the advance from Littlehorn and Associates had already been used. Used specifically for the training regime of Sergeant Yao Guai/Operative Lolli Pop. "Dismissed, Lieutenant… Sergeants. Leave my sight or you shall be the next test subject after Hathaway!"

Star – Dancer, Gaines, and Pop all turned to leave as Jabsco held the Brotherhood of Steel Operative's arm, "yes, Sir," asked the Asian man after the other two left.

"I heard you rescued a man under your charge," Commander Jabsco said, his ruddy complexion lessoning. "That is good for morale. Morale is important right now. Failed missions are never taken…well by our backers. Cobb and I have had many a discussion about you, Yao Guai."

"I am grateful, Sir," Pop could not meet the Talon Company Commander's eyes, instead casting his glance downward.

"How do you know he speaks highly of you," asked Jabsco as he cocked his head to the side.

"Pardon me for my presumptions, Commander," Jabsco nodded to show his allowance.

"We have discussed Takoma, a lot too," the Talon Company Commander walked to his desk. "It has come to my attention that Friendship Heights has been pushing eastward into the D.C. Ruins. If they were to claim Takoma, it would be a blow to morale. Not to mention there are certain items that need to be recovered and destroyed before they get that far."

"What would you have me do, Commander," Pop looked Jabsco in his eyes for the first time and the Commander lowered his gaze after a second.

"There is a standard of Talon Company still present at Takoma that must be recovered," Jabsco stated as he sat down, "there are several artillery pieces that need to be decommissioned so those ex-Raiders don't get them. The third matter is business from the Alleghany tribes. Star – Dancer's sins have finally caught up with her. The contract requires that she be killed, with her hand and boomerang sent back to the tribe as proof. Moral is important and I cannot simply kill her with the respect of the mercenaries. I will order the Second Scouts to Takoma, but you must fulfill this contract on Star – Dancer while you are there, in complete digression."

"Commander, I will be able to do as you say, but I will need an extra man to replace Private Skaagz, one I can depend on," Jabsco raised an eyebrow to Pop, not used to requests being made of him. "Galvin Cobb must be put on our team. He knows the hidden way into Takoma. He is skilled enough to keep up, and I trust to have him next to me in battle."

"And how would the Sergeant suggest the prisoner guide the whole of the Second Scout," the red rising in Jabsco's face again.

"Reinstate him as a grunt," suggested Pop, "and if so desired, I could kill him in the field as I plan to do with Lieutenant Star – Dancer, Sir."

Jabsco thought for a moment, "Yao Guai, you shall make a great Lieutenant soon."

Good as his word, the Commander of Talon Company reinstated Galvin Cobb under no title or authority but attached to the Second Scouts. Private Skaagz was recovering from his wounds in the medical bay of the underground barracks. Cobb was greeted coldly by the squad, Lieutenant Star – Dancer and Sergeant Gaines refused to utter his name even in his presence. Sergeant Yao Guai/Operative Lolli Pop was the only friendly face in the Second Scouts. In the mess hall, the former Talon Company Commander sat in front of Yao Guai as his fellow Talon's shot him sideway glances. Yao Guai's fame had increased further because had risked his life to save a squad member. The typical Talon attitude was for everyone for himself or herself. Camaraderie was uncommon in this day and age. When others, outside of the Second Scouts, saw him take meals with Galvin Cobb, it raised a few eyebrows and ruffled a few feathers from the higher ranking mercenaries.

"I swear, if I get anymore cold stares, I'll turn into an ice cube," Cobb scoffed as he tore open a roll made of wheat or some kind of cereal grain. "Have the others found out about our little field trip?"

"The briefing is not for another day," reminded Pop as he sucked up the sauce from the Pork N' Beans. "You sound…excited."

"No, not excited," corrected Cobb as he sighed heavily, the age showing around his eyes, "more like…apprehensive. A lot of good men and women served me at Takoma…it's where I became the man I am today."

"Show I take that as a good thing," smirked Pop as he joked. A half shaved head with hair combed to the side noted that Corporal Carrick had joined them, sitting next to Lolli Pop. Private Axel joined as well, choosing to sit next to Carrick and avoiding sharing a bench with Cobb.

"Is there any news Skaagz," asked Carrick, tearing her bread apart.

"No, the medics say he's alright but he claims to have pain," under his breath Pop muttered that the private was a pain in his ass.

"Well hello squad mates, it's good to see you," Cobb put on a sardonic smile as he greeted Axel and Carrick.

They chose to ignore him, "any idea what's going to happen, 'cause of that botched mission," Axel pressed as he leaned over Carrick to Pop.

"Yao Guai has information but he's been instructed not to say a word," Cobb smiled as the other two narrowed their eyes together.

"We were talking with Sergeant Yao Guai, not you," Corporal Carrick paused for a moment, a growl in her throat, the word 'traitor' on the tip of her tongue.

"Corporal, Galvin is a part of our unit now and as a former Commander deserves the respect of any solider in the Second Scouts," Lolli Pop was cold in his tone, denoting his seriousness.

"Understood, sir," Corporal Carrick said, Axel simply nodded.

"The reason why I've been reinstated was because I know of the only way into and out Takoma Industrial," he rolled his eyes at the dawning realization of their face.

"But…that place is crawling," Axel commented as he put his spoon down.

"There is a standard we need to recover," scoffed Galvin as Pop remained silent.

"Commander Jabsco wants to risk our lives to recover a flag," the indignation in Axel's voice was thicker than steel.

"The colors of Talon Company have a two hundred year old tradition, and my indiscretions should never tarnish them," scolded Cobb in a voice uncharacteristically stern and authoritative.

"Then why don't they send you in to get the cloth," Carrick snarled as she bared her teeth.

"That is why I am with you," rejoined the former Commander, _seven years and the wounds were still fresh_, he thought.

"The standard is a morale boost, Carrick," informed Pop as he added to the unofficial mission brief, "we're also to destroy some left over artillery. Some people could get their hands on them, which would be a bad thing."

The statement didn't get pass Cobb, "Jabsco fears those ex – Raiders."

"If Friendship Heights moves in to Takoma, they could cut off all of the Northern ruins for Talon Company," Pop laid out the possibility as well as he could, "without that artillery they could never hope to hold off super mutants or other people."

"It won't be easy, not a simple smash of a control panel," informed Cobb as he took two shakers of ancient salt and pepper, "they are on the roof of the main chemical factory, bolted to structural supports."

"This is a fucking suicide mission," Axel breathed out one long exhale.

"Death before dishonor," Pop didn't even move his mouth as he said the phrase with little meaning to men and woman.

Takoma Industrial Park was once a manufacturing center of chemicals located north of the National Mall. A whole week of work would leave the neighborhood in smog so thick on Fridays it was difficult to see ten feet in front of yourself. Families lived in row houses around the industrial plants. It had been two hundred years since the machinery had been running. Silence greeted the Second Scouts as they walked past the row houses.

Some doors were boarded up and others were blown off the hinges completely. Skeletons, rubbish, and torn up asphalt littered the street. Bones cracked under foot when a Second Scout walked on a skeleton, no reverence was paid to the long forgotten. Takoma Industrial was set at the top of a hill, the road leading up curved a bit. Galvin Cobb pointed to an electrical building set to serve the whole neighborhood and provided underground access to tunnels. Dead radroaches littered the floor of the top level, a rusty tire iron discarded in the corner.

"When I came out of the tunnels, I had only two shots left in my forty – four," Cobb sounded as if he was on another world. "That tire iron, it allowed me to kill those bugs without wasting ammo."

"Thank you for taking us down memory lane," Gaines's voice was terse and rough, "I want nothing but silence from your hole!"

Cobb shot back, "follow me," he waived over his shoulder for the team to follow.

The maintenance tunnels were humid, dark, and noise echoed for miles. Pipes hung from the tunnel ceilings and occasionally lead to a circuit box. Consoles that were waist high had coffee mugs, clipboards, or electrical parts strewn about them. The brief and infrequent lighting made it a slow process as they continued. Skeletons in pre – War clothing lay on the ground. Private Gauge would stoop down to check pockets, the ill kept cloth melting against her fingers and dissolving. She picked up a few cigarettes and a pack of half used mentats.

Turning down a flight of stairs to a lower tunnel, Cobb stopped the team, "what's the hold up now," complained Gaines as he pushed past the other privates to the new team member.

"Private Inverus, Eighth Infantry, he and a few others were covering me as I made my escape," informed Galvin Cobb as he cut off an embroidered name on the combat armor of a near mummified corpse.

"Another fucking Talon merc you doped with your sugary words," the snide comment was met by a smack in the face by former Commander Cobb, staggering Gaines backward.

"Don't think I don't remember you, Corporal," roared Galvin as he held his backhand up, "Private Inverus was ten times the man you were when he fought off the ghouls down here to help my escape. There was a time when men and women of Talon respected me," the former Commander stated as he continued to walk down the tunnels.

"Who are you to insult my Sergeant," deadpanned Lieutenant Star – Dancer.

Gaines cocked his side arm and shoved it into Galvin's face, "I'm going to drop you like the bag of shit you are, traitor!"

"Hold your fucking gun," ordered the Lieutenant as she approached the two of them, "Commander Jabsco wants him alive."

"Fuck," shouted the Sergeant as he stuffed the gun into his holster.

"Thank yo…," Cobb stopped as Star – Dancer backhanded him across the jaw.

"You were a Commander once, but have since lost rank," the tribeswoman informed as she pointed down the maintenance tunnel, "now lead the way."

"Yes…Lieutenant Star – Dancer," agreed Galvin as he continued down the tunnels.

The corridors bent and lowered deeper into the earth as they continued to walk. Bodies of ghouls, unable to decompose quickly due to radiation killing most bacteria, were mixed with mummified remains of Talon Company mercenaries that had embroidered names on their armor. Cobb would read them out: Aganna, Gudroe, Dagada, Matela, Matfor, and Rawia. The reverence to the name was clear in his voice, along with the brief ceremony of collecting names. Some names struck a chord with Gaines and Ryker, both of whom had been in Talon Company at Takoma under Cobb. The former Commander finally reached an elevator shaft with ladder rungs sturdy enough to climb.

"This ladder leads to Takoma Motor Auto Shop," informed Galvin Cobb as he tapped the first rung. "It's part of Takoma Park, right next to the entrance of the Industrial Plant. On top of an abandoned truck is the remote switch for the artillery. Bravo Squad, back before those hard asses got eaten by mutties, set it up for cover from the main plaza."

"Who was Bravo Squad," asked Donnelly from the back of the corridor.

"Part of the original nine squads – Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, and India," replied Cobb as he began to climb up, "has Jabsco not taught the history of the Company? Pffh, what can you expect from a formal tribal."

"Your point," asked the Alleghany tribeswoman, her voice monotone.

"My point being, he wasn't born into Talon Company as so few are these day," answered the former Commander as he licked his lips.

"Didn't know Talon had family legacies," Sergeant Yao Guai said as the privates began to climb the rungs in the elevator shaft.

The auto shop was a small, two rooms building with tons of dust in the air. The elevator shaft came out under a rusted out car on a two track lift. And office to the right had a still cluttered desk, the bones of the last mechanic mixed in the clothes and dust underneath. The Second Scouts secured the rooms, several gun muzzles pointed at the two exists. One was a door, the other a gated garage door. There were no windows. No indication of the outside area at all.

"Once we get out there, we will be a stone's throw away from being in the middle of Takoma Industrial. I do not doubt there are super mutants. However, there is some good news," Cobb coughed at the dust as it irritated his lungs.

"There is always good news," Gauges' tone was highly sarcastic.

"Takoma Industrial was separated into five sections. The typical entrance where most came to the main factory floor was accessed over an irradiated moat by a skyway through the chemical plant," on the dusty desk he drew out a rough map of blocks and squiggles. "Past the chemical plant, skyway, and main factory floor there is a back lot where the medical tent was set up next to a half collapsed warehouse. We are here, an area with an open parking lot and plaza that is separated from the chemical plant entrance by a wire fence and the remote artillery location."

"Can the guns be calibrated," asked Lolli Pop as the other looked at him.

"If they haven't been too weathered," acknowledged the former Commander.

"We could use them as a distraction before we disable them," strategized the undercover Brotherhood of Steel Operative as he held a finger under his nose to stop sneezing.

"Our secrecy will be blown," Gaines said firmly.

"If there are many super mutants, they will find us," conceded Star – Dancer as she pointed to the map. "Where are artillery controls?"

"There are three trucks. Here, here, and here," Galvin traced three lines in the dust next to the line that represented the chain link fence. "They are to the right of our location. The remote switch is on the truck separated from the rest."

"We should hold the squad back at the garage. Secure the remote switch and move forward while keeping our exit available." Yao Guai/Lolli Pop said as he indicated the map, "I'll take three men with me to secure the remote switch."

"Are the artillery bolted to the chemical plant or the factory floor," Star – Dancer asked, noting the two buildings connected by the skywalk.

"The main factory building, but it is only reached by the skywalk," Cobb drew a line between the two buildings that ended with the collapsed warehouse. "There is a deep water trench that is radioactive. Runoff for over two hundred years has made it deadly…well to human at least."

"There is something you are not saying," Star – Dancer's Alleghany instinct kicked in to read Galvin Cobb's body language.

With a heavy sigh Cobb continued. "Yes, you're right. We didn't enact the secondary defense measures. There are barrels of unstable explosives made from dish detergent, cleaning productions, and manure tied to the structural supports of the chemical plant."

"Will they take down the building," asked Gained as he assessed the liability.

"Yes and the skywalk too," pointed out the former Commander as he crossed out the bridge, "I can't say it's as potent now. The chemical plant was to be sacrificed to hold up in the main factory. If that was breached, only when it fell to the last man, would the last defense be recommended to enact. The factory is the most important part of the whole base."

"Why didn't you enact the last defense measure," Pop asked curiously.

"Full thermonuclear detonation," replied Cobb in a flat voice, "four miles of nothing but nuclear destruction. Ensuring the death our enemy and that no materials are left."

"The factory is a worthless hunk of shit," sneered the Talon Company Sergeant as the former Commander laughed.

"Gaines, we got the machines to work again," chuckled Cobb, coughing from the dust. "The noise is what attracted the super mutants."

"Who will you take, Yao Guai," asked Star – Dancer as the Asian operative looked at the men and women of the Second Scouts.

"Axel, Donnelly, and Motel to me," ordered Pop as he readied an R91 assault rifle, his pistols holstered because of their short range. "We are going to sneak out to the remote artillery switch. It will be used to cover the rest of the squad's advance. We will hold the ground, is that clear?"

They all nodded, Pop didn't need to say it was dangerous. They already knew it. The door was opened enough for Pop to peer out and take in the surroundings. The entrance was ajar just enough to give him a full view of the three truck beds mentioned by Cobb. Opening the door more, the sunlight filtered in through from behind broken sky scrapers. A parking lot held old and disused cars, their position unchanged in two hundred years. Far to the left, under an overhang created by wilted steel girders, sat a mountain of green and gray flesh drawn tightly over coiled muscles that moved with rhythmic breathing. Pop slowly closed the door as he turned back to hold a hand at them for quiet.

"One second," he walked over to Cobb, Gaines, and Star – Dancer. "Did you know there was a super mutant Behemoth out there?"

"I'm not surprised, it's been seven years since the attack," replied the former Commander. "There were too many to count as we retreated…."

"Ran away," sneered Gaines as Cobb moved in close to him.

"You were on guard duty that night, if I remember correctly, Corporal." Cobb referred to Gaines' previous service under him. "You and the whole Fifth Infantry were on the parameter the night of the first attack. Did any of you come back to help us in the week long siege that only occurred because they got past you. Yes, we lasted a whole week before the enemy took Takoma Industrial. No, you didn't come, you didn't help. The whole Fifth Infantry returned to Fort Bannister, preferring Jabsco's punishment to certain death. Fuck you Gaines."

"Galvin Cobb, you are under confines. Corporal Ryker, relieve him of his weapons and bind his hands," ordered the Lieutenant, the Corporal complied as he sat the prisoner down after collecting firearms and securing Cobb's wrists together.

She nodded firmly as Sergeant Yao Guai motioned for the men following to remain low as the door was opened just enough to squeeze through. Slowly shutting the door behind them, the Axel gave the 'Okay' symbol with his index and thumb forming a circle and his other three fingers erect. Pop signaled to continue to keep low and silent. Holding up four fingers, the Sergeant pointed to the singled out truck. They walked slowly and deliberately, Pop swiveling his head to watch the Behemoth slumber. When they reached the truck the four mercenaries were well out of the way of the super mutant to talk.

"Did you see the size of that fucking think," hissed Donnelly to the others.

"Get used to it, super mutants are heavy in this part of town," they walked up the truck to find some more long dead bodies. The sun had bleached the bones, the skin, hair, and muscles were all gone. It seemed the only thing keeping these Talon mercenaries together were their clothes and combat armor. These bodies were unlike the ones found in the tunnels, their patches were different. Yao Guai began removing the insignias as he ordered Axel to the table overlooking the car park.

The black Talon Company merc starred at the slack jawed skeleton with the top of its head blown off. He held in his lunch, removing the body from the chair as he checked the desk. The table that served as a desk had two medical kits still filled with supplies underneath it. A box of ammunition lay on the counter along with a terminal and switch. Pre – War terminals were easy to Axel, he was able to turn it on and get it to boot up. Hacking, however, was not his forte.

"Sarge, I've got a something here," he said as Yao Guai came over.

Pop was better at hacking systems than most, but he didn't want many people to know that fact, "check his pockets, the code could be in them."

Axel held his breath as he rummaged through the dead mercenary's pockets, removing a bit of metal that said: Emergency. He typed in the code and gained access to the weathered terminal. A map layout of Takoma Industrial along with adjustable crosshairs showed on the map. Two guns showed that the artillery was in sleep mode. Pop came over, hit three keys and the guns showed a new dialogue: Recharging. A loud noise of rusted gears and automated artillery made the silent park and buildings rattle.

"Shit," cursed Pop as he turned to Donnelly and Motel. "Get the others and make them run to the chemical plant, we have a limited amount of time."

Donnelly and Motel ran to the auto shop as fast and low as they could. The super mutant Behemoth began to stir, hearing the artillery warm up. From the chemical plant, other super mutants began to emerge, wondering about the new noise. They hadn't spotted Axel and Yao Guai yet, but it would only take them a few moments.

"Sarge, what do we do?" Private Axel was scared shitless when he saw all the super mutants.

"When those guns are ready, hammer the mutties at the chemical plant," ordered Yao Guai as he slid down the ramp, "and then you tear into that big ass mother fucker to give the others cover."

Twin bursts of artillery told Pop that Axel had fired the first volley. Two shells ripped through the first ranks of super mutants, exploding on impact. The burst jostled Pop as he lay prone in the truck bed. Steel doors to the chemical plant were blown wide open and off their hinges. More super mutants poured out, armor plated and wielding weapons as they now prepared for a fight. Lying prone, Pop was able to keep his gun steady, easy to aim, and hard to be hit. He opened fire on the super mutants. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative was able to drop two of them before they noticed and began to return fire.

Star – Dancer led the rest of the Second Scouts from the auto shop. The Behemoth was awaken by the artillery shelling his comrades and began lumbering to the Talon Company mercenaries. It held a large bit of piping as a club, up turning cars. Lieutenant Star – Dancer ordered them to run ad full speed to the super mutants at the chemical plant. A moment of hesitation and the second barrage hit the Behemoth. It was the cover they needed to move forward, the beast was occupied by the artillery.

"What do we do?" The panic in Gauge's voice was uncharacteristic.

"Secure that post on the left side up high," ordered Star – Dancer, "Ibao, No – Where, and Kirkland cover from the ground."

"Untie me so I can fight," pleaded Galvin Cobb as he fought his restrictive bonds.

"Shut your mouth," ordered Corporal Ryker as they moved forward into cover of the trucks.

Cobb sighed as Carrick him in cover, "don't worry, Commander," offered respectfully as she loaded her weapon with a new magazine.

"Behemoth to the left of me, super mutants to the right, and I'm stuck here in the middle with you," laughed Galvin contemptuously.

Sergeant Yao Guai kept popping off rounds as he kept prone. Privates Donnelly and Motel came running back into the truck contain. Donnelly jumped over his back to lay prone on his right side. Over the din of the gunfire and super mutant yelling, Pop could hear the artillery explosions. The Brotherhood Operative counted seven barrages and still the behemoth did not go down. Wet splashing noises caused Pop to swivel his head to see Private Kirkland holding her throat as she writhed on the ground. Her own blood pooling on the asphalt as she slowly stopped moving with her eyes open and unfocused. Private Ibao took the time to close her eyelids as he was nearest to the corpse of Kirkland.

"Stay and cover me," ordered Yao Guai as he stood up and ran to Kirkland's corpse.

Ibao looked at him only briefly as Pop tore off Kirkland's ammo belt and weapons. The Sergeant tossed a magazine to each of No – Where and Ibao before he flipped the corpse on its side. Pop then pulled Ibao down to use the dead body as a bullet shield.

"You dishonor her body," shouted No – Where, his Alleghany beliefs showing.

"Either you use her body or someone will use yours," replied Pop as he swung Kirkland's rifle to his back. He ran over to the truck that Lieutenant Star – Dancer and Sergeant Gaines were using as defense. They returned fine as they yelled out plans of attack. Yao Guai slid into cover, his back hitting hard into the metal truck as he pivoted to face he commanding officer.

"That Behemoth is going to rip through us if it gets closer," shouted Gaines as Pop rolled his eyes.

"Can artillery be aimed at the super mutants to punch a hole through them," Star – Dancer thought out load as Yao Guai shook his head.

"The artillery is the only thing keeping the Behemoth back," shot out Pop as he pointed to the damaged chemical plant doorway, "and a direct hit could take the whole building down!"

"What do you suggest then wide guy?" Gaines returned fire in a low crouch as the super mutants numbers swelled.

"I grabbed Kirkland's grenades, we collect everyone's grenades," Pop returned fire with one of his hand guns as his rifle needed a magazine change. "Toss them in in waves at the ones in front of us as two of us take half to the big fucker and the cars around its fucking feet!"

"Better plan than dying!" Star – Dancer tossed her grenades to Pop, Gaines split his with the Lieutenant.

Pop dashed to each group, separating grenades. He hurried back to the remote artillery post with Donnelly and Motel covering Axel. He tapped Donnelly on the head to get his attention. The Sergeant told the Private to stay with Axel, Pop was going to take Motel with him to the Behemoth. The kid was nervous, having never been in a firefight this big. Yao Guai pulled off the uniform of a long dead mercenary to hold all the grenades.

Private Motel gasped as his Sergeant shoved the impromptu sack of grenades into his stomach. Following his unit leader, Motel was able to see No – Where and Ibao covered and firing from behind Kirkland's body. Gauge and Carrick had taken the high ground of the truck tops to fire on the super mutants. A wall of old tires, probably collected from the cars in the parking lot, served as a protective cover for the female mercenaries up high. Gaines, Ryker, and Star – Dancer were all close together as they returned fire and talked with each other. Galvin Cobb rested against the truck. Frustration was lined on his face.

Pop lead Motel to the first set of cars, far away from the Behemoth but close to feel the rumble of the artillery strikers. "That big fucker has our names carved in its flesh," informed the Sergeant as he pointed to several cars, "I need you to check if the fission engines are intact, do you follow me?"

"Sarge, wh…wh…what are we go…go…going to do?" Stammered the scared Private, I he had any piss in his bladder it would be running down his leg at that point.

"We're going to light a nuclear blast under that ugly's ass," replied pop as he pushed Motel forward.

The Private ran to the car that his Sergeant had pointed out. Behemoths were the largest super mutant breed around in the wasteland, and not the smartest. The artillery was doing its job to distract the dumb beast. Motel opened the hood of the car to see an eight cylinder glory of the late Twenty – First Century western nuclear powered engine. Motel didn't know cars. All he saw was rusted metal and dusty wires. Brushing the caked dust off a smooth metal casing, Motel saw the distinctive radioactive hazard trefoil symbol. The yellow warning color may have faded but the dangerous substance still remained.

He ran back, feeling bullets form the front of the battle pass by him, "its radioactive," he reported to Yao Guai went.

"We're going to lure it to the car," informed Pop as he passed the grenades back to Motel, "the artillery will light up the grenades and the car…."

"Sarge, that'll take us with it," warned Motel, death to him seemed so distant.

"You only live once, Private," joked Pop as he stood up and yelled over his back, "make the best of it and go out with a blast!"

The monstrous green and gray fleshed brute raised its club high to smash it down on the pavement, asphalt shattering around the red metal hydrant. It swung at a few cars, tossing them to the side as an angry child would do to his or her toys. Pop began to fill the car with grenades. Explosives were put in the front, back, and trunk to help the fission engine combust in a mushroom cloud.

Waving his hands and firing his gun, Pop was able to get the monster's attention, "over here you ugly dumb fuck!"

The head, as large as a car itself, turned to the puny human and roared, "KILL LITTLE MAN! KILL," before it began to rush at the Sergeant and Private.

"Sarge, uh wh…wh…what do we do now?" Motel couldn't help but stare at the charging wall of muscle.

"Make it stay with the car!" Pop ordered as an artillery strike missed the mutant.

Jumping, the Behemoth out stretched its arms with the hydrant club and brought it down with a swing. Pop ducked and rolled out of the way. Motel began yelling and firing his weapon too, hoping to save his Sergeant. The super mutant took notice and reached for the Talon Company mercenary with its bare hand. Seeing no other route, Motel dove into the bobby trapped car.

Removing the hydrant mace from the asphalt, the Behemoth raised it again to slam it down on the Corvega sedan. Sergeant Yao Guai, the undercover Operative for the Brotherhood of Steel, stood up holding his dazed and fuzzy head. Motel was in the back seat, still alive after having survived the impact of the mace through the car's roof. He kicked at the glass, trying to break free as Pop ran to the Corvega.

"Motel, get out of there!" He yelled.

Like a corndog or a kebab, the Behemoth hoisted his hydrant mace in the air with meat in the center of the car. The weapon had penetrated the car after imploding the roof. Motel shifted as he was lifted into the air, falling against the now unstuffed leather seats. The grenades rattled around, some falling out of the car as the Private groaned in pain. Outside of the window he could see the large, bald, fleshy face of the Behemoth as it bellowed and bared yellowed square teeth and a refrigerator sized tongue. Two grenades fell out of the Corvega and into the super mutant's mouth. It swallowed the grenades like pills. Motel found a grenade next to his leg.

Pop still didn't have his feet under him as he held his head and yelled for Motel. _The stupid kid jumped into the car_, he thought just as it exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. The explosion set off the radioactive fissile material to create a small nuclear explosion. The position of the car to the Behemoth's face vaporized the head and arm instantly. A second explosion blew out the chest and ribs of the beast, a chunk of bone wedging itself in Lolli Pop's side. Pain dropped him on his back just as an artillery strike hit the remains of the Behemoth, putting the super mutant corpse on fire.

It took a few minutes as Pop regained his senses and walked to the trucks again. Behemoth bone lodged in his side. Star – Dancer and Gaines looked at him as he nodded. The order was yelled for the grenades to be thrown. After the third volley, the Takoma Industrial super mutants broke off and ran to the Park through the main entrance to get reinforcements. The Second Scouts wasted no time in securing the chemical plant. Private Axel sighed as he turned the remote artillery terminal off.

The chemical plant had several conveyor belts with Abraxo cleaning chemicals still lined up on them in perfect order. Four support pillars had three barrels tied to each of them. Super mutants did not understand how to disarm them. Twin staircases led to the convergent walkway that extended over the man-made radioactive moat. A sniping perch and lookout post was to the right of the chemical plant close to the right staircase. It was made in a blocked off skywalk that led to the collapsed warehouse. As they entered Takoma Industrial, the first Talon Company mercenaries to do so in seven years, the moment hit them hard.

Cheers and whoops of joy were echoed in the building. Pop asked Corporal Ryker for his flask, which he poured on the Behemoth's bone in his side, then taking a long swig of the moonshine for himself. Yao Guai then held the flask up high. Ordering the men to shut up and calm down took a few minutes.

"Second Scouts, we have taken Takoma," he said, and the mend and women cheered again. "Two people gave their lives today. We should cheer Privates Kirkland and Motel for their heroic sacrifices. Victory is sweet, without Kirkland and Motel it is not complete."

Those with personal flasks, despite being a dry unit, poured a shot out for the dead. Someone had recovered the medical supplies from Kirkland's pack and Pop began to secure the bone and wrap around it tightly. Lieutenant Star – Dancer and Sergeant Gaines joined him as he dressed the wound. The doorway to the chemical plant was completely off the frame and on the ground, leaving the entrance open.

"Took a hit," commented Gaines, his rifle between his legs as he sat down.

"Don't sound too happy," grunted Pop as he waved away assistance from Carrick preferring to secure his own wound. "Motel…fuck."

"He turned out to be a better fighter than I imagined," approved the grizzled Sergeant, who originally thought the Private in question wasn't worth a bucket of warm piss.

"They're going to be back soon," the Lieutenant was already preparing the defense.

"The door is wide open," sighed Pop as he checked his guns, done with his bandage, "and we need ammo."

"I think there are a few caches left," yelled out Cobb as he edged into the conversation, Ryker bashed min on the shoulder. "Fuck you, get your ammo from rotten mutties."

"Are we suggesting that we defend this place," Gaines looked at the Lieutenant skeptically.

"The men are tired," she stated as she shook her head, she could read the exhaustion on her squads faces. "We need to rest and get to work in collecting that standard and disabling those guns."

"We need reinforcements," Pop didn't see an objection in their eyes. He called over Donnelly. The mousey brown haired boy had red puffy eyes, "we need you to deliver a message to Fort Bannister. Tell Commander Jabsco we have Takoma Industrial and need reinforcements. If he turns you away, find every Colonel or Captain willing to help."

"Do you think he'll turn me away, Sarge," asked the scared Private.

"Talk to Colonel Danziger if you run into opposition for our relief." Gaines stared at the Private as Pop offered him a piece of expensive technology.

"You are not to engage anything, and use this to make it there in good time," the stealth boy caught the attention of the Lieutenant, Sergeant, and Cobb.

"I'll do my best, Sarge," agreed Donnelly as he strapped the stealth boy to his wrist and left the chemical plant.

"Where the fuck you get a stealth boy, Yao Guai," asked Gaines bluntly.

"First thing is we need to defend this place," dismissed Pop as he looked to the stairs.

"Good fucking luck," growled Galvin as Ryker moved to hit him again. "Okay, okay, I get it. I talk, I get hit…just stop the…hitting…shit!"

Corporal Ryker smiled and bashed Galvin Cobb in the face again, "that's enough Corporal," scolded Sergeant Yao Guai. "He's right. This section cannot be defended for long. The doorway is open wide. We can hold them off in firing teams for a short time."

He drew two lines in the dust, Abraxo, and rubble with his foot angled to face the doorway as a funnel, "first line would have to be here. Fall back positions at the stairs until we cross the skywalk. Can the explosives be set off?"

Private Axel was checking the leads to several barrels tied to support beams, "everything looks A-Okay, Sarge."

"The chemicals could have deteriorated," Cobb shook his aching head.

"Even still, it can do some damage," sighed Pop as he looked to Axel, "did you take out the remote artillery switch?"

In response, the black Talon Company mercenary produced the electrical switch, "no way for them to use our own artillery against us, now."

"Fucking mutties don't know how to use that shit," scoffed Gauge as Pop wiped his face in exhaustion.

Gaines frowned, "Gauge and No – Where, scout the main factory for ammo and supplies." Both privates nodded and went to scout for items, "check on the detonator and make sure it's hold up well," ordered Pop to Axel.

Private Ibao began to collect barrels, planks, and even the warped steel doors to create the angled barricades Lolli Pop recommended. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative began to give an order to the mute man but realized he was doing exactly as they needed. Corporal Carrick joined Ibao to make the barricades. Star – Dancer went off on her own as Corporal Ryker stood guard over Galvin Cobb. Gaines sat down with Pop as the Operative removed his helmet and rested on the ground from where he sat. The Sergeant shook a pack of smokes and offered one of the ancient cigarettes to Pop, who declined.

"We're all going to die someday," mused the mid-thirty year old Talon Company Sergeant, "it's the reason why Ryker and I don't bother with helmets."

"Some deaths are good ones," Pop tried to rub the grime from his face.

"Motel, that little shit, did not see him ever taking down a Behemoth," Gaines took a long grad on his cigarette before he looked at Pop. "I still don't trust you, but you're fucking decent at leading men."

"Why Sergeant Gaines, I do believe you are warming up to me," quipped Pop with a sarcastic laugh.

"Fuck you, Yao Guai," replied the Sergeant as he got up, "I didn't escape this shit hole seven years ago with the Fifth to die here now."

"Donnelly will make it," stated Pop as he watched Ibao and Carrick build the barricades, _he has to_, he thought.

Two days since the recapture of Takoma Industrial, Private Donnelly of the Second Scouts found his way back to Fort Bannister. He had not slept or walked, he had run the whole way. Sneaking past super mutant sentries, Outcast patrols, and Regulators were the only times the scout slowed down. The image of the water tower was a welcomed sight to Donnelly. He tossed the completely used up stealth boy on the desert floor, it had long ago lost its charge and become worthless. Not wanting to scare the Talon Company guards, the Private raised his hands in the air.

"Private Donnelly, Second Scouts," he announced again and again as he walked to the sandbag barricades.

The guards ran out to him with drinks of water, alcohol, and food seeing his horrible condition. More Talon mercenaries from the tents rushed into him, offering stimulants, drugs, and chems of all sort. Donnelly turned them all down, instead requesting to see Commander Jabsco right away. He was escorted to the Commander's work station in the bunker. Hathaway lay on a gurney, a new mechanical piece being implanted in him with open pink flesh, sub – dermal tissue, and blood exposed. Donnelly was a young man who had seen much in the last few days, found himself holding in the bile of his stomach. Jabsco's eyes quickly noted his rank.

"Are you the last survivor of the Second Scouts, Private?" The Commander asked, feeling smug with himself for having Galvin Cobb, Star – Dancer, and the infuriating up – and – comer terminated. _If only I could have collected that Alleghany bitch's bounty_, Jabsco sighed to himself, resigned that it was for the best.

"No, sir," answered the Private, his voice dry and gravelly from a lack of water. "Though they may all die if we don't act fast. The Second Scouts have taken and held Takoma Industial."

Talon Company Commander Jabsco growled inwardly as he twisted a scalpel in one of Hathaway's open wounds. A silent scream appeared on the test subject's face as the commander asked, "the Second Scouts have taken Takoma Industrial?"

"Yes, sir, with minimal losses," reported the mousey brown haired Private. "We have killed a score of super mutants and one Behemoth."

Jabsco dropped the scalpel as he heard the deeds of his best squad. Prior to Donnelly showing up, he had invited some of his Colonels, Majors, and Captains to watch him install a new piece of equipment into Hathaway. They too went silent with the proclamation that the Second Scouts had killed super mutants and a Behemoth. The Commander looked to his trusted mercenary officers and said, "leave us, now." The finality of his voiced even made Private Donnelly slowly back away as the Talon Company Commander stared him down, "Private, you stay!"

Donnelly physically gulped in fear as he heard the malice in Jabsco's voice, "yes, sir."

"Would you like me to arrange another squad or perhaps a platoon to go out there and save the Second Scouts?" The question was rhetorically and the Private knew from the Commander's tone of voice not to answer, "if I did that, I would be sentencing those men to death."

"Sir, if you don't you'll sentence the Second Scouts to death instead," pleaded Donnelly, Jabsco sniggered as he saw compassion as weakness.

"They're already dead," the Commander stated and pointed to the door, "get out of my sight if you don't want to join them this instant. You'll be reassigned shortly, Private."

"Yes, sir," Donnelly said, holding the anger he felt in his chest. He left the room for Jabsco to excise his anger on Hathaway.

The Second Scout Private saw that the Colonels, Majors, and Captains were milling about in the underground bunker. They all knew not to upset Jabsco when he was in one of his moods, and that to be far from his beck and call would only make matters worse. Donnelly asked a Captain if they knew Colonel Danziger. The Talon Company officer pointed to a man in well-worn black combat armor with the Colonel insignia on his shoulder. The eagle grasping arrows was seen as the highest rank in Talon Company besides being the Commander. Danziger was an older man, his dark hair replaced with white at his temples and a white goatee that came to a forward point. Wrinkles, namely crow's feet, aged his blotched complexion and touched a lightning bolt scar that adorned the left side of his face. He was built as an old mercenary would be; medium height with some muscle and a heavy set of brass balls.

Private Donnelly walked to the Talon Company Officer and the three Captains he was conversing with, "Colonel Danziger, Sergeant Gaines said I should contact you if I found no assistance from…." He stopped himself from finishing the sentence as he knew anyone could report him to Jabsco for treasonous statements.

Danziger nodded to the Captain, "Kieta, Tancred, and Leo Phokas are all Captains for the Fifth Infantry and are loyal to me. Speak freely, Private."

"Sirs, Sergeant Gaines says that the Fifth Infantry can help the Second Scouts," Donnelly was direct in addressing the men, all of where years older than he. "Takoma Industrial has been taken over, but there are far too few of us guarding it to keep it."

"Is it true you took down a Behemoth," asked Leo Phokas, a Talon mercenary of mixed Asian and African descent.

Donnelly nodded as his throat seized for a second as he thought about his friend, "Private Motel of the Second Scouts…sacrificed himself to blow up that fucking beast."

The Captains looked at each other, a silent conversation occurred between them and the Colonel, "does Galvin Cobb still live," asked Danziger with a straight face.

"Yes," replied the Second Scout Private, the Colonel nodded to the Captains.

"Assemble the men," he ordered to Kieta and Tancred, turning to Leo Phokas, "ensure we have enough supplies," and then resting on the Second Scout Private. "There is a debt I must repay. You shall lead us, Scout."

Two days had passed without word. The Second Scouts were up for nearly seventy – two hours straight. Super mutants sent some scouting groups to test their defenses. Axel had reestablished the explosive integrity for the chemical plant but regret to inform everyone that the artillery was in operable without some heavy maintenance. Ibao had built strong barricades. No – Where had found several boxes of unused ammunition and two Browning M2A1 machine guns with a hundred rounds each. The Ma Deuces, as they were affectionately called, were kept across the man-made radioactive moat. Abraxo leaning soap heped the Second Scouts replenish their explosives with a nifty recipe Carrick knew how to produce with the help of Nuka – cola. Prepared as they were, the stress was getting to them all.

Soldiers dealt with stress in different ways, Private Gauge was on lookout in the sniper's post but was paying more attention to her own needs. She was not a nymphomaniac, as some had speculated, just an overly sexual person with a very high libido. Orgasm was her way of releasing tension and stress. Perched in the collapsed skywalk, she was separated from the rest of the Second Scouts as she took the time to treat herself. Her hand rubbed her inner thighs through her combat pants, her gun sitting on the metal skywalk floor next to her ancient chair. She slowly undid her pants and teased herself with her finger tips as she gently felt her warmth and moistness increase.

The jaundiced mercenary bit her bottom lip, leaning back with her eyes rolling back a bit. Moaning and breathing heavily in her throat as she brought herself to climax by playing with her hard little pleasure button. Gauge lips were sensitive to her own touch, making her feel waves of pleasure and bringing herself to climax another time. Her free hand began undoing her combat armor so she could give her breasts some attention as well. Gauge's wetness soaking her right hand as a moment of post orgasm clarity hit her. Far in the distance, above the ruins of a bombed out house shone a flash of light. The Talon mercenary calmed herself just enough to get the binoculars to see the smoke trail of a missile from a super mutant with a launcher in her view. She tossed the binoculars aside and pulled her combat pants up as she ran to the door to warn the Second Scouts.

Missiles traveled faster than human feet. The explosion tore the sniper post apart. The door Gauge had opened a moment before the blast was blown wide open with a fireball and her remains falling in the middle of the chemical plant. The ancient building shook as the perch came down and took a good portion of the wall with it. No – Where poured some water collected from the moat on Gauge's charred corpse to prevent it from igniting the explosives tied to the structural pillars. A massive force of super mutants thundered through the front gate and across the plaza of the Takoma Park. Ibao and No – Where held one barricade. Axel and Carrick held the other angled barricade. Yao Guai and Star – Dancer covered on the left side staircase, the explosion from the sniper post having almost thrown the Brotherhood Operative over the metal railing. Corporal Ryker and Sergeant Gaines covered the right staircase. Galvin Cobb had been secured in the main factory beyond the skywalk.

The first wave of melee super mutants was dropped easily. Piling up at the open entrance, the mutants had to climb over the bodies of their fallen brothers. Soon Ibao had gone through his first clip, Axel following shortly. An explosion ripped through the front of the chemical plant, collapsing some of the building and widening the entrance for more super mutants.

"Fall back to the stairs," ordered Star – Dancer as the two front teams split from the barricades to run up the metal staircases. Super mutants piled into the chemical plant, pushing so violently they knocked over some their own numbers. Yao Guai kept firing into the bottleneck of mutants as Star – Dancer popped through the opening where the sniper's perch had been to put rounds in the back numbers of the super mutants. Gaines and Ryker kept them off the staircases, focusing them to the middle near the structural supports. Privates Axel, No – Where, Ibao, and Corporal Carrick set up another point of defense right in front of the skywalk.

Another missile went off, the super mutant inside the chemical plant now. The explosion took out the landing behind Star – Dancer and Yao Guai. They both held onto the ancient metal rails as the staircase lurched and shuddered. _The gap in the metal walkway was too large for them to jump, _thought Pop as he shared a look with Star – Dancer. The Lieutenant nodded as he pushed forward, down the stairs, with Star – Dancer in tow. Corporal Ryker took down the super mutant with the missile launcher as it fired a stray shot hitting the back wall and igniting leaked chemicals around the staircases.

The Lieutenant and Sergeant ran down to the chemical plant floor as fire spread around them. Orange light, smoke, and intense heat assailed their sense as they kept firing at the super mutants. Star – Dancer's assault rifle jammed as it was ejecting a round from the chamber. She threw it at a super mutant and picked up one of their sledge hammers. The Alleghany tribeswoman hit a mutant in the knees with great strength and then bashed them in the head as it lay on the chemical plant floor howling in pain. Pop tried to get her attention but blood lust had consumed her, she raised the sledgehammer and instead of going for another super mutant turned on him. Flames shining bright behind her Pop put two rounds in her chest from his hand gun, his rifle long out of ammo.

Star – Dancer staggered, looking at him as she held herself up with the sledgehammer like a crutch. Slowly she slumped over it and Pop reached for her boomerang. Her massive hand grabbed his neck, trying to strangle him with her last bit of strength. Lieutenant Star – Dancer took a bullet in the head by a super mutant. Just as Commander Jabsco wished, Pop removed the boomerang and took her right hand. Tucking it away he made it up the stairs as the fires intensified. The Privates and Corporals continued to fire through the blinding flames and smoke.

"Where is the Lieutenant," asked Gaines as Yao Guai passed him the boomerang.

"Get across the sky bridge, now," ordered Pop as Gaines returned their late Lieutenant's boomerang to the Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

The Second Scouts ran across the bridge and held at the other side inside the main factory. Axel held the switch waiting for the order. Pop had his hand up as they heard super mutants running up the stairs. At the first sight of super mutants on the top landing Pop slashed his hand down and Axel hit the detonator.

A roar louder than a lion was heard by the Second Scouts as a fireball erupted from the chemical plant floor as the barrels ignited, the manure acting as a combustion agent. Super mutant flesh burnt, skeletons charred, the building across the moat shook as glass from the skywalk shattered into millions of pieces. The temperature built up past the point of three thousand degrees Fahrenheit warping the steel girders and vaporizing the concrete supports. Creaks could be heard from the roof before it collapsed and the walls imploded on themselves. The skywalk fell into the moat, unsupported on one side. With bubbles and gurgles, it came to rest on the bottom of the radioactive moat. The Second Scouts sighed in relief at seeing the super mutants retreat. They would live for another day.

Sergeant Yao Guai walked over to Galvin Cobb and cut off his bonds. Ryker looked at him with disbelief as Gaines got into Pop's face, "what do you think you are doing?"

Pop coughed, he had inhaled a lot of smoke and the running had upset his still injured side, "Lieutenant Star – Dancer is dead. We need someone to lead us. You're too gung – ho and I'm to cautious. Commander Cobb is the only one with experience in these matters here, and we need all the men we can get."

"Calling him fucking Commander now?" Ryker Snorted as Cobb pulled a gun from Pop and pointed it at the Corporal's one good eye.

"Do we have a problem, Corporal," asked Commander Galvin Cobb with a defiant growl.

Ryker paused, his vision fixed down the barrel of a gun, "no…Sir."

"Didn't think so," the Talon Company Commander returned the gun to Pop, "Sergeants Gaines and Yao Guai have done very well, but we aren't out of the ruins yet. We must set up the Ma Deuces at the corners of the court yard facing the moat. If they can cross that moat we are dead."

"Is there anything behind the court yard," asked Privare No – Where as he reloaded his gun.

"A maze of buildings leading to a sink hole and debris, no escape," Galvin shook his head as he pointed out the window to the scenery. "There are only two ways out. Waiting for reinforcements or blowing a thermonuclear bomb to take out everything. I always hated this part of the planned defense."

"Men, you heard the Commander, prepare the courtyard," Yao Guai leaned into Cobb's ear, "where do you have the Talon Company standard?"

Gaines took over control of the men as Cobb and the Brotherhood of Steel Operative began to walk. Up several landings and staircases of the main factory was an office looking over the whole of the factory. Pinned to the wall with two rusted hunting knives was a black flag with an eagle in midflight. Clenched in its talons was a crying baby. Instead of a typical eagle head, there was a horned skull. Cobb looked at the standard with sorrowful pride as he said, "that, my dear Yao Guai, is what Takoma is all about."

"I'll let the men know," replied the Brotherhood of Steel Operative as he took the flag and climbed out onto the roof from a nearby ladder and hatch.

There was no flag pole to hand it on, but he did fasten it on the last beam of an ancient and destroyed radio tower. It flapped in the wind as he saw another long dead Talon mercenary, the fire and smoke from the chemical plant still blazing. A sniper rifle was in the dead woman's hand, rusted out after seven years of facing the elements. He stared down the still functional scope that he removed from the gun to see the super mutants creating a camp at the bombed out entrance building. Scanning the top of the building he made out an odd sight, a dressed super mutant with wisps of thin and greasy hair. He seemed to be communication with the other super mutants, words and sentences that seemed far too complex for dumb monsters. Pop felt a twinge of fear at the pit of his stomach.

Cut off and surrounded, the Second Scouts weathered attacks from super mutants pressing against the Talon Company defense. Commander Cobb had given strict orders to save the Ma Deuces for the larger attack that was sure to come. What little ammunition was left was shared among each mercenary. They luckily were able to sleep in shifts because the area of engaging the enemy was well covered by those on guard duty. Corporal Ryker wad taken a bullet in the knee, but Ibao was quick to cut the bleeding with a tourniquet. Scrapes, bruises, irradiated water and ancient food stuffs fueled these warriors. The black flap kept on flapping in the wind, their morale was unnaturally high.

The super mutants knew they were there, so talking loud and even singing was permitted. A radio had been salvaged from the main factory along with working vacuum tubes. It gave the Second Scouts pleasure to blast Galaxy News Radio all day long, despite their hatred of Three – Dog. The disc jockey's voice was grating to their ears. Commander Cobb took the time to teach the men to sing and old Talon Company song of pride.

"O'er Hill, O'er dale; we will hit the dusty trail," sang shouted Cobb as only Yao Guai, Carrick, and Axel were willing to join in. "As the Talons go marchin' along! Keep movin', yah lazy lout; Counter march and right about, and our Talons go marchin' along.

"For they're high – high – hee in Talon Company. Shout out the numbers loud and strong! Till our final ride, it will always be our pride," at the end even Gaines and Ryker would join in. "Keep those Talons marchin' along."

After several refrains the first night, morning, and second night, they were sick of the repetitive nature of the song. They found entertainment in the most mundane ways between the tests against their security. Ibao was throwing rocks at rubbish. Axel was tinkering with machinery as Carrick observed. Ryker and No – Where would sit in silence watching or tossing stones into the moat. Yao Guai saw to Commander Cobb in his old office. A large dusty registry was in front of him, along with the patches of dead Talon mercenaries found on the way to Takoma Industrial.

Pop sat down with Galvin Cobb on an ancient chair, "what are you doing?"

"Recording the names of those under my command that were lost," replied the Talon Commander as he wrote notes next to names. There was a long pause before Cobb put down the charcoal pencil, "any word from your…organization?"

The direct question caught Pop off guard, "that is not the…communication I have with them."

Galvin turned to him, his attention away from the book and focused on the Operative, "do they know what we are up against?"

"As of this moment? No," informed the Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

"Fuck me," sighed Cobb, an age on his face emerged that was unseen before. "I want more information on this group you work for, Yao Guai."

"That is not an option, Galvin," replied Pop as he took out the boomerang and hand that belonged to Lieutenant Star – Dancer.

"Is this to intimidate me," the Talon Commander pointed at the graying hand of the late Lieutenant.

"No, that was on the orders of Jabsco," he wrapped the hand in the cloth again and returned it to his side pack. "MY organization is far reaching and well planned. I am not the first to be put in an assignment like this. However, this is the first time we've shown our hand."

"Literally," quipped Cobb as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Regardless, this puts me at a certain disadvantage in my…organization. If I am to be…found out…then I will be done so, alone. All knowledge of me, connection to me, or standing I have will be lost," the hand he was showing was not Star – Dancers, or the Brotherhood's, but his own. "I am going to have to show loyalty to you and Jabsco at the same time, until we are able to destroy him completely. I know what my organization wants and inform them on my progress, but I cannot just pop over to them on a whim."

"And if we all die here today, or tomorrow," the question seemed pointless as Cobb asked it.

"I don't plan to die here," answered Pop as he wetted his lips with his tongue. "And those men out there certainly don't. Talon Company keeps on marching along."

"Plans are well and good," Cobb lamented as he office looked over the hole caused by the collapsed skywalk. A funny feeling of nostalgia came over him, _sometimes history requires us to play these roles_.

"This is why we chose you," Pop blinked once and stared at Galvin Cobb. "You were once able to motivate men and then lost it as the Fool of Takoma. After we succeed, you'll be Commander Galvin Cobb, again. The Hero of Takoma."

Cobb opened his mouth to speak as an explosion was heard from the courtyard. Both he and Pop paused for a second before they grabbed their weapons and rand down the staircases. Contingents of super mutants were making their way to the radioactive moat. The large green monsters surrounded a rusty shell of some kind as they marched slowly forward. Two super mutants were launching missiles in sequence. Ibao shot one in the hands making the monster drop its weapon. The missile launcher hit the ground but was quickly scooped back up. Clicking the trigger, the mutant fired the loaded missile, but a dent in the barrel jammed the projectile inside. Super mutants were dumb, but they noticed a misfiring weapon when it occurred. Any good weapons specialist knows not to look down the barrel of a loaded gun, especially with unexploded ordinance jammed in it.

One missile launcher was taken out in an explosion caused by its own misfired rocket. Only a dent appeared in the metal shell. The second missile launcher was still going strong, hammering the ground and constructed barricades. Ibao, No – Where and Carrick had built them well. The barricades were able to endure the first bombardments of the missile launchers. Corporal Ryker ran to a Ma Deuce but was cut down by the super mutants before he could make it over. The limp had slowed him down enough to make him an easy target, and being a stubborn man didn't think about until his mouth filled with the taste of iron and was unable to draw breath. No – Where was able to reach the Ma Deuce on the opposite side of the courtyard and rained fiery hell in fifty caliber form on the big, green, and uglies. The second missile launcher went down as multiple rounds cut it in pieces. Soon all the mutants protecting the metal shell were dead, but it kept moving; pushed forward by the super mutants protected under it.

A new group of mutants rushed out to support the covered approach as Sergeant Gaines made it to Ryker's Ma Deuce and began to fire on the shell. Ibao, Axel, and Carrick were behind a barricade as Pop and Cobb took cover behind another farther back near No – Where. No matter how many rounds they put into the shell, it kept coming forward. It stopped at the edge of the moat. The Second Scouts held their collective breath for a second as they waited to see what would happen next. Two long planks were dropped and slid across the moat. Gaines swore loudly and began firing the metal shell again as the next wave defended the newly created walkway. No – Where took a bullet in the head from this third group of super mutants, causing him to slump over the Ma Deuce dead.

"No – Where is down," shouted Corporal Carrick, pointing to the fifty caliber weapon that wasn't firing.

"I'm on it," shouted Yao Guai as he began to get up.

Cobb held him back, "I've got this."

"Aim at the feet," offered the Brotherhood of Steel Operative while he pointed to the metal shell crossing the plank bridge.

Commander Galvin Cobb pulled the dead body of No – Where off the Ma Deuce and hunkered down behind the hot machine gun. He planted his feet at the base and swung the Browning to get its barring. Looking down the sights he saw what Pop meant about aiming at the feet. The metal shell did not cover the super mutants' feet as they walked across the plank bridge. The metal shell shuffled along the tracks trying to cross onto the other side of the courtyard. Cobb opened fire on their feet, green flesh torn apart with the large rounds.

The metal shell shifted, splashes could be heard from super mutants falling into the moat. Wild splashes mixed with fifty caliber rounds as more super mutants were felled into the radioactive water. It looked like it took a while, but the metal shell rocked and swayed over the side of the tracks. Super mutants fell into the water. Those injured and uninjured tried to swim to the Talon Company side. Gaines fired his rounds into those swimming mutants, tearing them to shreds. More super mutants ran from their outpost to join the fray, tactics completely forgotten. Soon Gaines heard the clicking noises of an empty Ma Deuce. Pop was down to using his underpowered side arms. Privates Axel, Ibao, and Corporal Carrick were on their last magazines of ammunition.

The belt of ammunition to Cobb's Ma Deuce was running low, when he saw a dust cloud. Nearly three hundred super mutants were at the moat looking to cross on the two plank bridge. Galvin emptied his fifty caliber machine gun and took cover, observing the dust cloud approach. Soon it was close enough to see men in black combat armor running into the fray at the backs of the super mutants. The Commander turned to the Second Scouts and made a slash across his throat to signal a cease fire. Pop stopped first, noticing the new troops on the field. Axel, Carrick, Ibao, and Gaines soon dropped their empty weapons. Weapons fire continued, the super mutants being shot in the back by surprise.

Colonel Danziger, Chinese officer sword in one hand and laser pistol in the other, lead the whole of the Fifth Infantry in a charge against three hundred super mutants. One hundred and ninety – two infantry mercenaries, along with Private Donnelly, ran to the large green men firing weapons and lobbing grenades. Surprise was their advantage as they pushed against the mutties, but the shock wore off quickly as the super mutants counter attacked the Talon Company mercenaries with gun, laser, and fist.

No super mutant was left alive, unable to flee. The severely injured Fifth Infantry finished them off to the last green skinned monster. By the time the fight was over, only sixty – seven of the Fifth Infantry remained, including Colonel Danziger and Captains Kieta and Leo Phokas. Private Donnelly walked over the wooden planks to the rest of the Second Scouts, noticing that their numbers were also decreased. The mousey brown haired kid looked from Gaines to Yao Guai, both of whom nodded to Commander Cobb.

"Private Donnelly, you've done exceptional work," said Galvin Cobb of Takoma, a hand on the young kid's shoulder.

"Thank you, sir," replied the boy, bags under his eye from being awake for so long; Colonel Danziger sunk his blade into the body of a crawling super mutant as he observed this exchange.

The old Colonel walked across the planks with his Captains and men watching him. He walked right up to Cob, holstering his laser pistol. No greetings were said between the men, just and intense stare between the two of them. Danziger knelt down holding the super mutant blood soaked blade on the palms of his hands. Cobb leaned down and whispered in the Colonel's ear. In response the old Talon Company Colonel stood up with Commander Cobb and lifted his hand into the air. The move elicited a loud cheer from the remaining mercenaries.

Commander Cobb embraced Colonel Danziger with one arm as they walked to the main factory, Pop was able to overhear Galvin say; "your honor bound debt has been repaid, Colonel, but we still have much to do here in Takoma."

Captains Leo Phokas and Kieta approached the two Sergeants, "are you the highest ranking mercenaries of the Second Scouts," neither Pop nor Gaines saw which Captain had said it. They were still shocked that the battle was over and they were still alive.

"Yes," they both answered in unison, causing each of them to be embarrassed.

"Where would you advise to dump these…bodies," the short black Captain Kieta asked, indicating the super mutants.

"Take them over to the parking lot," instructed Gaines as Yao Guai whistled for the remainder of the Second Scouts to follow.

They began to move the bodies of the recently slayed super mutants to the open parking lot. The bodies of the Behemoth and other super mutants were already there. As they worked, Second Scout with Fifth Infantry, they began to sing. They emphasized the line, 'shout out the number loud and strong' each time they came to it. Back at Fort Bannister, no one sang during routine labor, but at Takoma Industrial they sang as they waded through blood, guts, and bodies. Yao Guai was smiling from ear – to – ear as he dragged a super mutant corpse to the parking lot with Donnelly. The voices of Talon Company mercenaries were echoing in the ruins of northern Washington, D.C. Their standard, a black flag, still flapping in the wind tied to a broken radio tower.

**Author's Notes**

Thank you once again for reading this chapter of Between Two Cities in the BIOS Saga. I have been planning this chapter for a long time and it took several notebooks and research to compile. I will actually take the time to explain some of my plot points at this point.

The old mountains and the Alleghany tribes are references the Appalachian Mountains and the survivors of Alleghany County, Virginia who formed their own tribe of sorts. It's a mixture of Appalachia, biker gangs, mashed together with some Amerindian traditions. While the people that make up the tribe are diverse and different, most of them are proud warriors that despise any form of weakness.

Operative Lolli Pop/Sergeant Yao Guai is homosexual, but he is much more than that as an individual. Just as he is more than being of Asian descent, or born in Little Lamplight.

Kaelyn's Bed & Breakfast is actual location in Fallout 3. It is under control by raiders and on the trade routes for the Canterbury Commons merchants. During the game, it is possible for the raiders to kill a merchant passing by, for that reason I made it a vital point for the Family to protect.

The Family has grown in size because of the security they provide and the path they offer to reform cannibals.

The lean-tos I describe look more like the Finnish laavu.

Talon Company has capital backers. While there is no direct connection between Littlehorn & Associates with the private military force, it would make good sense to have 'hired henchmen'. Likewise, the direct contract that can occur to kill the player character between Mister Burke and Talon Company shows the direct relation of Tenpenny Tower and the organization. Based on the Fallout 3 Prima Strategy Guide through The Vault, "they [Talon Company] are working for an unknown third part, with simple orders – keep the Capital Wasteland a lawless, disorganized place."

Takoma Industrial is and actual location in Fallout 3 and the site of a battle between super mutants and Talon Company. Evidence suggests that Talon Company once had a base of operations there as there are military tents, bodies, and artillery stationed there. The Takoma Park artillery note states that the artillery was established to retake the position in Takoma Park with three squads assisting. I created more of a back story to this to give Talon Company more history. The naming of squads and platoons becomes arbitrary in Talon Company with their loss of history, in part thanks to Commander Jabsco.

The definition of a Company in military terms is to be about 60 to 200 soldiers. Over the centuries Talon Company could have swelled up to strength of Battalion (300 to 1,000) or a Brigade (3,000 to 5,000), if they were spread over a vast amount of area. The Fifth Infantry, by itself, would be considered a full Company. Likewise, a squad is considered to be around ten soldiers and a platoon from ~15 to ~40.

The three Captains of Colonel Danziger were taken from famous military commanders. Sundiata Kieta is known as the father of the Mali Empire. The First Crusade was led by Tancred from the Norman House of Hauteville, who became the regent for the Principality of Antioch and Prince of Galilee. Leo Phokas was a Byzantine general with many victories against Eastern and Arab advisories that led to the resurrection of the Byzantine Empire.

The Talon Company song taught by Commander Gavlin Cobb is a bastardized form of the Caisson Song by Brigadier General Edmund L. Gruber of the United States Army. It was adapted into a march by John Philip Sousa and renamed U.S. Field Artillery Song. The current version, The Army Goes Rolling, was finalized in 1956 and would fall into the divergent timeline of the Fallout Universe.

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Ask or post them in reviews!


	10. Tenpenny Noir

Disclaimer: I do not own Fallout, the Fallout Universe, nor any characters originating from the games of Fallout in publication or unreleased. This work of fiction does not, in any way, generate profit for the writer.

Between Two Cities

Chapter 10.) Tenpenny Noir

Tenpenny Tower was an amazing site to behold. It was a virtual ivory tower in the dark brown dirt of the wasteland. Residents of Allistair Tenpenny's personal multilevel resort held their heads high, sometimes with their noses in the air to avoid the stench of the ground. The tower was self-sufficient for most items; it produced clean water, energy, and had a high standard of security. Operative Colin Moriarty Junior stayed in the ambassadorial suite of the ivory tower. From his view on an open balcony, he was able to see the quickly erected structures of a tent city to the south. Several weeks had passed since J.R. and his adopted ward, Patrick Keyes, had arrived at the secure tower. Blocked from meeting either Allistair Tenpenny or Mister Burke, the Brotherhood of Steel Intelligence Operative had to find himself content with delays informed by the Chief of Security. Gustavo was a former Talon Company Captain, who had retired to the comfortable job of securing Tenpenny Tower for an inflated salary, and his attitude had not been softened by working for such civilized residents.

Patrick Keyes was Susie Mack's cousin, the former girlfriend of Colin who now carried his child while working at Friendship Heights Settlement in a Vault 101 outreach program, and like his cousin he was daring, reckless, and able to find his own entertainment. The Vault teen's current entertainment came from the sultry Susan Lancaster. J.R. deliberately kept his ward uninformed as he was quick to learn that Miss Lancaster was an escort who traveled in certain circles at Tenpenny Tower. The Operative was resolved that it would be best for Patrick not to fill her with information, either unwanted or requested. At the front desk that served as Gustavo's main station as Chief of Security sat the main in white combat armor with a steaming mug of liquid, which at best was murky water and brahmin milk. Colin, now in a pre-war business suit that was moth eaten, frayed, and moldy it seemed to be held together by share luck, tipped his green tinted fedora in greeting before ducking into the Federalist Lounge.

Any type of armor was necessary for the caravan trip that took him to Tenpenny Tower. However, cultural standards of the residents required a certain form of decency in dress that harkened to the days before an exchange of nuclear weapons had occurred. Not to feel ostracized, Colin Moriarty Junior purchased an inexpensive suit to wear. He was acting as the official representative of Megaton, upon request of his father, and therefore needed to look the part. Even with the relatively new suit, most residents at Tenpenny Tower treated him as a raider in sheep's clothing. He did not mind the odd looks and whispers from the busybodies. What did matter to J.R. was not being able to meet with Burke or Tenpenny and having to while away his miniscule amount of caps each day along with his time.

The Federalist Lounge was the local watering hole where the rich, famous, and entitled of the ivory tower began their drinking habits at nine in the morning. By midafternoon, all the patrons were sleepily drunk or on the verge to that stupor. J.R. wasted his time waiting to meet with Tenpenny by conversing with two particular residents of the tower, Irving Cheng and Herbert "Daring" Dashwood. The two old men had interesting stories and histories that were easily plied from their lips with a purchase from Shakes, the bartending Robco robot. Irving was a Chinese Communist descendent and Dashwood was a wandering adventure of old. Both men could only stand each other's company with copious amounts of booze, which J.R. provided readily for his entertainment.

"Greetings Comrade," beamed the affable drunk in a pre-war style button down shirt, sweater vest, and slacks.

Dashwood moaned out slowly as he rolled his eyes and neck together, "not this crap again," his complexion ruddy and nose red showing the bearded man was well into his drink.

"Do not defame the Great Experiment," Cheng paused to drink before smacking his lips, his rebuttal lost to the added alcohol in his system.

"Great Experiment this, Comrade that," growled the old adventure through his beard as his drink dampened his graying whiskers; the glass was set back onto the counter empty. "All you really need is scotch, a shotgun, and a woman to be happy."

A hunched over figure hobbled up to the table and brought the glass over to the robot bartender to refresh. No one paid attention the human life that shuffled from table to table refilling drinks to the patrons of the Federalist Lounge. J.R. raised an eyebrow as the old man looked up briefly to make eye contact with the Brotherhood of Steel Operative. The servant was dressed in a loose fitting uniform of a disgusting mauve, straight collar, and small circular cap that neither protected nor covered the old man's head. To say the eyes of this man looked broken would be an understatement. Prior to his service in the Federalist Lounge, he had a life, now the old man was treated as an object; just another footstool or lamp to the residents of Tenpenny Tower. The old man cowed his head as he shambled to an empty corner that was out of anyone's raise.

"Does it offend you," asked Dashwood, drinking from his refilled glass as he jammed his thumb in the direction of the old man.

"No, I just…I didn't know Tenpenny approved of slavery," the thought had been nagging at him for a few weeks.

A belly laugh so loud and long caused several patrons to stare their way had come from the gut of Herbert Dashwood as he slapped his knee to gain composure, "he isn't a slave! Boy, come here," the demeaning request was for the old man.

The old man hobbled forward to Daring, "yes, sir, how can I be of assistance?" His voice was slow as he announced each syllable with precession as if talking came to him in waves of pain.

"Are you a slave, boy," asked Dashwood as Cheng slammed his glass down, causing it to splash and the old man produced a cloth to wipe the liquid away.

"Comrade, really! Boy is such a…derisive term," Irving shook his head, his old cheeks sagging and red. "You should refer to our fellow comrade properly."

"I am a simple servant employed on Mister Tenpenny's gracious payroll," the old man gave a slight smile for Cheng and Dashwood's benefit. "Sirs may call me as they see fit."

"What is your name," asked J.R., catching the old man by surprise.

"My name, as I am, is of no importance, Mister Moriarty," the smile did not reach his dead eyes.

"You can just call me J.R.," insisted the Operative.

"Yes, Mister J.R.," answered the elderly servant as Colin tried not to show his disbelief at the obvious lack of understanding.

"This is where you tell me your name now," J.R. stated as he locked eyes with the servant, his hands moved with some fumbling to find his cigarettes and lighter in the grimy suit.

"Armand," provided the elderly man as he began to refill Cheng's glass of the clear vodka the old Communist preferred.

"Armand," shouted Dashwood, smiling as he held it as success not to call the man Comrade, "head over to Café Beau Monde and pick me up a breakfast of sliced punga, brahmin cheese, and a bottle of port. Tell Mistress Primrose to put it on my tab."

"As you request, Mister Dashwood," replied Armand as he shuffled out of the lounge and through the tower at his slow gait.

"He speaks pleasantly," commented Cheng, slowly sliding down in his arm chair as the drink caused him to mellow.

"Surprised Tenpenny could find such service from the wastes," Dashwood wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. "Did I ever tell at the time I was in Arefu…."

"I'm going to check on my ward," injected J.R. as he had already heard story of Arefu and the special services a set of twins had performed for Herbert "Daring" Dashwood. The men had already had a few rounds while at the lounge and it was still early enough for a late lunch but far too early for J.R. to drink himself into a Tenpenny stupor. He swayed a little as he stood up, the alcohol already well into his system. Dashwood kept on telling the same old story to Irving Cheng, uninterrupted from the departure of Colin Moriarty Junior, taking more pleasure in the sound of his own voice than his former adventures. Just like his old stories that had a gem of adventure, Herbert lacked the ability to instill any quality except for the banal. The Lone Wanderer had stolen the limelight of Herbert "Daring" Dashwood, and to keep himself relevant the old man had sold the rights to his stories to Three Dog at Galaxy News Radio. It only increased his popularity in Tenpenny Tower, while across the wasteland he was portrayed as more of buffoon, requiring a bigger suite to sustain his engorged ego.

As an ambassador for his father, Colin Moriarty Junior was able to infiltrate more openly than most of his colleagues. The addition of Patrick Keyes was unexpected and complicated the situation more than the relationship between the operative and the Vault teen's cousin. J.R. taken the kid under his wing because he knew Patrick lacked common sense and would end up dead in the wastes. Early morning drinks also helped Colin deal with the kid, who he knew little about except for his relation to Susie Mack and turned out to be more of a handful than he had planned. Brotherhood of Steel training did not prepare one to become a surrogate parent. The question of parenthood plagued J.R. more now than ever before because Susie was caring his child, a child he hoped would not be as stubborn as Patrick Keyes.

In the complimentary suite, Patrick was staring out into the wasteland from the balcony to observe the tent city erected not even a mile from the ivory tower. People looked like dots scurrying around their daily tasks to the Vault teen's eyes. Tenpenny guards, under the command of Gustavo, practiced in the courtyard in their pristine white combat armor. Guards were needed to keep out the riff raff and common rabble that threatened the elite residents of the tower. Likewise, the security staff was used to maintain the obedience of the recently hired servants, most of who lived in the tent city. Patrick keenly watched from the balcony, creating histories and dialogue in his head to alleviate his boredom. Far removed from the Vault 101, Tenpenny Tower gave a vastly different perspective to the teenager.

"When do I get my first gun," Patrick greeted his mentor, weapons were uncommon to anyone in the Vault unless as part of security.

"How many caps do you have," J.R. asked while picking up the remains from room service and swaying slightly. The smell of mole rat bacon made his stomach churn and he had to hold his mouth to prevent releasing the contents of his stomach.

"Not counting the twenty – five you loaned me?" Keyes smiled weakly as he turned away from the balcony to see his de facto guardian, "and the seventeen used for food…."

"Seventeen caps! You're killing me, Pat," cried out Colin as he pushed the plate away in disgust. The mole rat bacon had long since grown cold, "this shit is nearly on forth that in Springvale or Megaton."

"I had to tip the woman that brought it up," explained the teen as the Operative groaned out, his breathing smelling of alcohol, "seems you've been spending some caps too."

"How I spend my money is my concern," reprimanded J.R. as Patrick frowned while walking back to the balcony. "I don't have enough for the both of us to just wallow away forever."

"The lets go," whined the teen as he held the balcony's bannister and pulled on it like a trapped animal prepared to gnaw off its own leg when caught in a trap.

"Isn't there some girls or goys here for you to play with," the Operative was thinking, _I hate the tedium of not being able to move forward either, but the mission is important and must be maintained_.

"No," huffed out Keyes as he kicked at an imaginary rock on the balcony, moving some dust in the air.

"Well, get a job," offered J.R., realizing he had pulled the kid out of his first employment with the caravans.

"Tycho was the only one willing to take me on," complained Patrick as he finished off the room service by chewing the cold mole rat bacon. "The people in the Tower treat me like a pest, shooing me from place to place, Montenegro chased me out of her shop claiming I stole something! Hell, I'm pretty much stuck to your suite on orders of Chief Gustavo because I'm too rowdy."

"Gustavo did what?" J.R. rubbed the temples of his head with two hands as he tried to clear his vision, "on second thought, don't tell me. Let me talk with him."

"Going to give him a Brotherhood beat down," the excitement in the Vault teen's voice made Colin's stomach churn worse than the mole rat bacon.

Colin was at a loss for words as he looked at his teenage ward, mouth agape. "Pat, don't…leave the suite until I get back," ordered the Operative, Keyes narrowed his eyes displeased at the being told what to do. To distract him from other thoughts, the Vault teen imagined life living up high and free like in the tower compared to underground in his home. Colin removed himself from the suite, fumbling for another cigarette to light. Patrick's loose lips and quick thoughts worried him. He had told his ward not to mention anything about his service to the Brotherhood of Steel, but how much could he trust the kid not to let a stupid comment slip out. J.R. pulled hard on the cigarette to have the nicotine rush that would counter act the effects of the alcohol in his system.

Moriarty the younger pressed the button for the tower's elevator and waited for the rickety old machine to respond. Disrepair and ancient, the elevator clanked and shook as the Operative road the mechanical lift down to the lobby. He exhaled audible as the metal box lowered past the floor and then raised up quickly to have the gates creak open as it leveled at the floor. Getting used to a box on a string for travel between floors had not been high on the list of accomplishments for J.R. Walking, and it's associated movement, helped the alcohol and nicotine balance in his system better to have a sobering appearance. Gustavo was not at his typical desk, _he must be checking on his _thugs, thought Moriarty. Doors that led out of Tenpenny Tower were heavy, made of solid metal, and during the Great War had acted as protective blast doors. So airtight was the building, it had to be opened periodically each week to regain oxygen.

Several residents walked around the piazza to stretch their legs. Everyone at Tenpenny Tower knew to avoid the eastern side of the courtyard because it was the training ground for the security team run by Gustavo. A shooting range had been erected with metal sheets and painted targets in the shape of humans and circles. Cinder blocks and seventeen foot high walls maintained the shooting range, allowed for the bullets that were not too damaged to be melted down, casted to be fired again. Each guard wore white combat armor and had similar close cropped hair that was near scalp for each man and woman. The music in the air was a symphony of gunpowder, heat, and bravado that J.R. was accustomed to with Jericho at Megaton and Ashkelon at Springvale.

Snaps, pops, and the clang of an empty receiver caused the Operative to become acutely aware of his imbibed state despite nicotine in his system. Gustavo stood watch over his security force. The Chief of Security for Tenpenny Tower was a tan man that was emphasized even more by the state of his pristine white armor. His dark brown hair was long enough to part to one side, held in place with a force so strong that wind could not cause it to wave. A knife scrapped his cheeks and chin to remove the five o'clock shadow that began to grow by noon for the Security Chief. Allistair Tenpenny preferred his men to be as clean looking as possible to give a civilized appearance despite the uncivilized actions they had to take. A metal necklace hung around his neck but was tucked under his armor. J.R. could only guess it was a former token of the man's past with Talon Company.

Gustavo tucked his knife away and held his arms akimbo. His hands were gloved in stained white brahmin leather, a particular of his clothing that he wore when outside of the tower. No shades protected his eyes from the harsh rays of the sun, which were causing his skin to begin to wrinkle at the corners of his eyes. Colin stood behind the Security Chief to see if the man would notice his presence. The target practice symphony continued, blocking most other sounds from earshot. After a several minutes, J.R. could not wait any longer and attempted to gain Gustavo's attention by talking and then yelling. Unacknowledged, the Operative tapped the man on his shoulder.

Turning his head slightly to see J.R., Gustavo said in a voice that was loud enough for the distance between them for Colin to hear, "what can I do for you?"

"I need to talk about…," the gun fire drowned out Colin's words and the Chief of Security held up two fingers into the air with his other fingers not firmly closing to his palm.

"Ceasefire," order Gustavo as he pulled out the cloth that had been tucked in his ears that J.R. had missed, used to dampen the sound of gunfire; "as you were saying?"

Gustavo turned his face back to his security guards, not keeping eye contact with Moriarty Junior, did not go unnoticed to the Operative, "I want to speak with you about my ward, Patrick."

"That little hooligan you brought in is confined to your suite for the remainder of your stay, however short it may be," the tone flat, but his words had the impression that he expected J.R. to leave on his own accord.

"That hooligan, as you suggest with no proof, is my charge and therefore under my rules and regulations. I didn't think Tenpenny would be so crude as to deny this right to visiting dignitaries of other towns," the drinks in the bar and food ordered by Colin were collected in a tab that would be presented to his father as soon as the Operative left Tenpenny Tower, another sign of his gracious host's hospitality.

Turning to face Colin, Gustavo shoved a gloved finger right into the Operative's chest," your fucking kid stole an ancient work of art from Lydia Montenegro. Luckily, she is not pressing charges, which would be her right as a resident of Tenpenny Tower. I am here to protect the Tower's residents, not babysit _dignitaries_ from that built over shithole. Mud lickers, like you and that kid, are privileged to be in here. Word of advice, _friend_, enjoy it while it lasts before I get to kick you out on your ass."

J.R. stared at the man who attempted intimidate him. He did not care about the insults to Megaton, Patrick, or himself. The Security Chief used cheap words to bully the Operative. Colin Moriarty Junior fought against Super Mutants, feral ghouls, and every other enemy the Brotherhood of Steel had. Gustavo did not intimidate him, but he needed to act the part of his father's son and as a member of Ashkelon's inner circle. J.R. grabbed the finger pointed to his chest with one hand deftly and turned Gustavo's whole arm behind the Chief of Security's back. The BIOS Operative free hand clutched the fleshy part of the neck, calloused fingers that had been tempered by life on a caravan and his Brotherhood of Steel training, squeezing the windpipe close. The white armored man went for his side arm as Colin pulled the finger with arm up between Gustavo's shoulder blades. Security Chief of Tenpenny Tower was dangerously close to having his arm ripped out of its socket.

Colin's mouth was right on Gustavo's ear, his spittle making the Chief of Security's ear wet, "reach for your weapon again and I will tear your throat out. I have no problem to spill your blood in the sand," the whisper was quiet and harsh with the finality that J.R. spoke. Pain shot through the man's shoulder and arm with the application of more pressure, "I am not some weak willed tower squatter you can push around with your bluster. I am the son of Moriarty, a man who survived crossing the ocean as a boy. I have traveled far and wide over these wastes. I know when I am dicked around and my time is wasted. You will lay off Patrick, or we will repeat this over again with a less favorable outcome for you."

J.R. released the Security Chief, whose esophagus opened up wide as the fresh air burned his deprived lungs, "FUCK OFF," gasped Gustavo as he slowly regained breathe and rotated his now sore arm.

Satisfied with his action, both the physical treatment and acting, the Operative walked back into Tenpenny Tower. His first stop was the Federalist Lounge to ring up more charges to his tab. Dashwood and Cheng were still drinking. Armand stood in the same corner, a sentinel for empty glasses. J.R. retook his seat and closed his eyes listening to the rhythmic sounds of Shakes mixing drinks, the clinking of ice, and idle chatter. Armand hobbled over to Colin Moriarty Junior with a glass with several fingers of whiskey. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative swirled the melting ice in his whiskey, the amber liquid glimmering in the ancient hotel lights.

"Dashwood," J.R. tried to get the old adventurer's attention several days later. After repeating the name three more times and swirling the ice in his drink, Colin asked what was on his mind, "do you know the area well?"

In a long pause of the Federalist Lounge, smoke filled air mixed with the stench of alcohol, the bearded man with a well weathered face from years traveling said, "damn straight, son, but it's been a while since I was out."

"We should go out on an adventure," recommended Moriarty Junior with a malicious smirk, thinking of the stories he heard of the great Herbert 'Daring' Dashwood and his stalwart manservant, Argyle. Retirement and old age did not suit this former adventurer.

"He is far too old for such gallivanting, Comrade," cautioned Cheng with a mocking smile as his cheeks sagged and his liver spots shone darker.

"Fuck you!" Responded Dashwood with the elegance of a common man from the Capital Wasteland, rising from his seat with a server stagger due to arthritic knees and drunkenness, "I ain't fucking old, just out of season, you cock sucking commie bastard."

"Language, Comrade Dash – _hic_ – wood, the all-seeing leader does not _hic_ deem such common words useful to men of our _hic_ standing," the modern day Communist admonished his drinking buddy.

"Let's leave this half irradiated ass licker to pickle his liver and spleen," prowled the old wanderer as he staggered to claim his combat shotgun that saw no use these days save for cleaning it with oil.

With a quick motion, J.R. finished his drink and placed it on the table gently as the ice clinked together, melting in the warm lounge, "let's go to that tent city and see what it's all about. Any place you recommend Armand?"

"I beg your pardon, sir," the old servant played dumb as he cleared away the glasses, Colin repeated the question again. "Well, sir, I could only recommend the general store, but why ever would you wish to go there with Lady Montenegro's place so close by?"

"Adventure, my boy," said Dashwood, fixing his combat shotgun by loading a few rounds into the drum and blowing dust from the receiver.

"Comrade Dashwood, show Comrade Armand some civility," Irving Cheng demanded, knowing he didn't show the servant any more kindness than he did Shakes the robotic bartender.

"Go fuck yourself, Commie," was the short expletive reply from Herbert as looked to Colin Moriarty Junior; with an exaggerated hand flourish to the open doorway of the lounge and a mocking accent that sounded like a mixture of Cheng and Tenpenny, "lead the way, most esteemed Ambassador."

"I shall try to keep up, dear adventurer," J.R. mocked the pleasantry as he walked out of the lounge. The large blast doors were open to let in fresh air. Gustavo stared at Moriarty from his desk, a rage seething in the Chief of Security that made the Brotherhood of Steel Operative smile in the face of the tanned former Talon mercenary. His white armored security gave J.R. and Dashwood little hassle when it came to leaving the tower. Their main priority was protecting Tenpenny's property and investments. Herbert Daring Dashwood had not been outside of Tenpenny Tower in ten years, he was betting on getting back into the swing of wanderer the second his boots hit the hot sand.

These two men began walking south by southwest from the large Ivory colored tower that belonged to Tenpenny. An aged hand spotted with brown splotches shielded the retired adventurer's eyes from the harsh wasteland sun. His other hand slipped on the wooden grip of the combat shotgun with clammy sweat. Discomfort began quickly for Dashwood when he began to cough from exerting his old body too much, even on a fairly short outing. J.R. became concerned as he offered to help the old man several times only to be cursed at and pushed away. The combat shotgun provided more help as a walking stick than a weapon. A small asphalt corner remained from the Great War, along with two buildings and a nonfunctioning light post.

Lucky's, in faded yellow cursive paint, read the sign above the door of the red brick building with two stories. A small cement building that was a combination of grey granite and blue quartz sat in a state that was boarded up, the roof having collapsed inwards several decades before. Tents lay beyond these two buildings in a diamond shape with one large tent, with multiple pole supports, directly in the middle. Smoke came out of the top flaps of several of the smaller tents indicating the fires inside. Cloth was the main fabric for the tents, a few were made of plastic sheets and leather patches. Heads of people could be seen walking between the tents, occasionally disappearing as they ducked between flaps or behind structures that were taller than a human.

Dashwood eased himself onto a few stacked boxers outside of Lucky's, the shotgun across his lap as he tried to catch his breath. "Out of season, you say, Daring," chided the younger man as retired adventure told him where to hang his hat, in a way that was not elegant. "I'm going to check the trader out, see if I can get you some vapors."

J.R. pushed the door open to the two story building called Lucky's and a chime made from an animal bell was struck to mark his entrance. Two men were talking, one was the own and the other had a stance that seemed to indicate a menacing attitude. They both stopped their conversation when Colin looked their way, the merchant behind the counter had sharp blue eyes that pierced informed him to be on his guard. Undeterred, the man on the other side of the counter was neither customer nor friend to trader and restarted their conversation in a hushed voice. The Operative walked down the aisles, picking an unmarked can and pretending to inspect it as he kept an eye at the front counter.

Harden tanned leather armor, fine stitching, and a visible triangular brand that read 'eVc' on the left and right spaulders that protected the shoulders. A lighter leather band that had a secured pouch in the front hung from the menacing man's right shoulder and was secured with a buckle to the left hip. The handle of a revolver stuck out of the back of leather pants with harden plating, there was no proper holster for the weapon. _Odd_, thought J.R. as he walked down another aisle and continued to observe the man through the dingy mirror curved to have a wide angle view of the store, _what raider doesn't take some precaution with their weapon? It is their main tool for gaining caps. Also, traveling merchants usually have cap pouches like that to prevent…_ Colin's thoughts were cut short as the conversation got a little louder.

Turning to face the men, the Operative saw the glinting metal of the revolver behind the man's back. On instinct, J.R. rushed forward to the leather armored man and the trader, who was not aware of the gun. A strengthened Brotherhood trained grip crushed the raider merchant's gloved hand around the grip of the revolver, his index finger expertly trained to get between the trigger and the trigger guard to prevent a shot. Pressure on his index finger indicated the surprised raider merchant attempted to pull the trigger despite not having the barrel completely free of his pants. Squeezing the pressure point at the clavicle made the man lose concentration on his gun, his back hitting J.R. to push him away. The local merchant saw the gun in the now immobilized grasp of two hands as Colin moved to the right slowly as the raider pushed back, shuffling in a circle that just hurt the leather clad man more with each move.

J.R. looked into the shop keeper's blue eyes, "I'm sure it's none of my business," the words were soft as he realized the absurdity of a man dressed in a grimy business suit subduing a harden wasteland raider. He smiled faintly as the restrained trader began to struggle again, "I think Mister quick draw here needs to cool of…."

The Operative's mouth was open as the local merchant drew a shiny semi-automatic ten millimeter pistol and shot the raider merchant in the head. _Hollow point ammunition_, thought J.R. as blood, hair, and skull covered a side of the Brotherhood of Steel member's face and mouth. It took a delayed second, but the body of the raider lost the support of its muscles and bones. Slumped to the ground, Colin Moriarty Junior's grip still held to the gun hand and clavicle staggered him forward before he let go. Staring wide, hunched over as the Operative regained his footing, and the half headed body of the raider merchant's blood pooled on the tile in front of the still armed shop keep.

Slowly, and with deliberate motions, J.R. grabbed the counter for support as he stared down the barrel of the gun and spat out the blood, hair, and gore that were in his mouth. The refuse added to the blood pool. Sharp blue eyes behind a face that betrayed no emotion, aged by the sun but recently softened by the fluorescent lights of the local shop, and clothes that betrayed the former occupation as a traveling merchant by all the pouches, pockets, and secret compartments on his well-worn jacket. His face broke in a small smile to the Operative as he holstered his gun in the front of his pants under his belt as he walked from behind the counter. Without a word, the former traveling merchant turned the dead raider over and began to rifle through his pockets and pouches to pull out caps, trade materials, and promissory paper notes stamped with the same 'eVc' logo.

J.R. whipped his face clean of blood with his suit sleeve, it was fouled permanently. He wanted to thrash the shop keeper for action out so violently and risking his own life. Colin didn't know who this dead man was, but he now knew he was pulled into this shop keeper's life. _The difference between Tenpenny Tower and this tent city is wider than the distance between the ICB to the Broken Banks_, thought the Brotherhood Operative. In truth, it reminded J.R. of his travels to places like the Broken Banks or Drayden because it they were villages not under any control save for local rules. _Then again_, he thought as the shop keeper finished rummaging through the dead man's pockets, _Tenpenny thinks all places outside of his Tower are uncivilized, so who am I to judge? The Enclave felt similarly to the Brotherhood of Steel and look where that got them…_

His personal insight stopped as Herbert 'Daring' Dashwood blundered into the local shop firing his automatic shotgun at the shelves and ceiling. Ancient plaster and particle board splintered and shattered in volumes of dust sticking to any surface it could find. J.R. rushed to the old adventurer and tackled him to the ground making the gun clatter off under a display unit. The astute merchant jumped over the counter and readied his semiautomatic pistol as the fine white dust collected in his dark hair and covered his face from the shoulders up.

Lying on top of Dashwood, the Operative held out his hands wide as he yelled to the shop keeper, "don't shoot! He's just an eager old fool!"

An audible click was heard as the hammer to the pistol was placed back without a round going off, "sheet, gave me a fuckin' sta't," complained the merchant as he relaxed, realizing this stranger had saved his life twice.

"Son, I was killing raider when you were still drying on your momma's thigh," wheezed the old adventurer as Colin Moriarty Junior helped him to his feet.

"Seeing as you spent all your time in whore houses than in the wastes, I know your field of expertise," ribbed J.R. as he deposited the old man on the crates stacked near the door, "now sit down and stay put, old man."

A sour look stayed on Dashwood's face as J.R. walked over to the shop keep, "thanks," grumbled the merchant as he nodded his head to the old man, "I owe you. Double."

"Yea," agreed the Operative as he tried to beat the dust from his hair, the gore still bright red on his sleeve.

"So," the merchant held his lips to his teeth as looked to the young man in a suit and the old man in a sweater vest, "what brings you in?"

"The old man is breathing like a fucking mole rat under water, do you have any vapors?" The merchant chuckled at the idiom and J.R. smiled realizing this man might become a quick a friend.

"I like the way you talk," said the merchant as he pulled a small jaw from a shelf behind the counter with no markings on it, the body still bleeding on the ground covered in white dust. "You from Richmon', or along Corridor Nin'ty – Five?"

"I've been down to Glen Springs and Hillaaf, used to work caravans as far south as Broken Banks," confirmed the former traveler turned Brotherhood of Steel member.

"I used to trade in Hillaaf, the'e was this cantankerous woman that served the best musky soup…Clarissa Fram," the merchant still held the jar, having not handed it over to the man.

There was no look of nostalgia in the merchants eyes, from what J.R. could see because he knew it was a test of his truthfulness, "I believe you mean Katjaa Ibrine, Clarissa was the mechanic helping at the Old Airstrip. Ibrine's muskellunge stew was delicious."

A roar of laughter shook white dust from the merchant's hair, placing the jar in J.R.'s hand, "ain't tha' the truth, good to mee' another ol' boy."

"I gave up the caravan game long ago," admitted Colin as he looked around the store, "gave it up as well, I take it?"

"Corridor Nin'ty – Five took a chunk out of my ass and I put down roots. Won this he'e shop in a game o' cards, decided it was time to settle," the merchant held out his hand for an old time introduction, "name's Grant Fairtrade."

"My friends call me J.R.," introduced the Operative as he shook the merchants hand, "interesting name, Grant."

"My granpap saw it on a poster down in Richmon', thought it serendipitous and took it as the family name," shrugged Grant as he didn't think too much about his family name, "though I'm thinking of changing my name t' Lucky because of wha' you did for me today."

Colin looked at the dead body and back to Fairtrade, "care to tell me what that was all about?"

"Fuckin' Janowic, third time he's been around," answered Grant as he shook more dust out of his hair, undoing the pony tail it was tied in, "wanted me to pay a percentage of my earnin's, mark up my goods, and sell stuff purely from the Consortium. Fuckin' V.E.C. thugs."

"Never heard of the consortium," the question was implied in J.R.'s voice.

"You've been out o' the game for a'hile," commented Grant as he retied his hair in a pulled back pony tail. "It started off small enough with raiders, murders, and tribes joining up in a trade group they called the Virginia Economic Consortium. For the past three years, people are being forced to join or lose their crops, shops, or lives." Fairtrade came out from behind the counter and looked at the dead VEC member, with unseen strength the merchant lifted the dead body by the chest strap and said, "I'll have to hide the body."

"How can I help, Grant," asked J.R. as he tossed the jar of vapors to Dashwood, not wanting to smear the ointment on the man's chest.

"You've helped more than enough, J.R.," Fairtrade indicated the dead VEC member on his shoulder, "jus' don't eat any meat at Tenpenny Tower for bit." The merchant winked as J.R. began to pay for the medicine, "free o' charge for a good ol' boy."

"Consider it help for cleaning up the place," laughed Colin as he left the caps on the counter and fetched the combat shotgun.

"A little Abraxo and a lot of elbow grease ought to do it," Grant laughed with J.R. as the Operative helped the old adventure up, who still had a sour look on his face but was thankful to breathe through his nose again. Colin Moriarty Junior ended the outing for the day, seeing as Dashwood needed vapors to be able to walk. With the open airways, Daring now launched into a tirade as they walked back to the Tower. White armored guards held them up for some time to confirm that Dashwood was a resident and J.R. was a guest, more concerned about letting people in than out. Herbert 'Daring' Dashwood decided to put his combat shotgun away and leave the adventuring to the younger generation. Colin on the other hand made arrangements to travel more often to the tent city, because if Grant Fairtrade was any indication of the populace, he'd like them a lot better than those in Tenpenny Tower.

Days blended together, all of them came without seeing Mister Burke or Allistair Tenpenny. J.R.'s impatience with the ivory tower grew, causing him to become restless in having to remain in one location so long. Time seemed to be elongated while on his father's task due to the young teen he had taken as a ward. Patrick was still running into trouble with Security Chief Gustavo. Loitering in the lobby or glancing too long in the direction of a resident raised the alarm of any white combat armored security guard in the area to move the teen along. Occasionally, the Chief of Security would have the young man jailed for a time in the Ambassadorial Suite under armed guard; until Colin got word of it and sorted the situation out, time after time. This put stress on J.R. when he was placed in a tough position. Making the Brotherhood of Steel Operative a surrogate father, mentor, and employer to an immature teenage Vault Dweller who did not crave an authority figure. Immeasurable tension loaded on the shoulders of Colin that he would have to shrug off every so often by taking a day trip to the tent city.

Revelry with the owner of Lucky's, Grant Fairtrade, led to Colin being introduced to the locals living in the newly established settlement. Like the shop keeper, most of those who came to establish the town had been from hamlets, villages, and trading posts along Corridor Ninety – Five. Men, women, and children from Glen Springs, Hillaaf, and even as far south as Richmond, had walked the hundred and ten miles through horrid conditions to claim this parcel of land for their own. Names of places, people, and creatures J.R. had never heard of were talked about with commonality, and when questioned by the Operative he was greeted with a queer gaze and an equally ambiguous answer. From the conversations, Colin was able to glean that frontier communities were beginning to start up in places where the presence of Enclave had once restricted them from existing. J.R. was also able to pick up that these people, who were called Slags by the guards of Tenpenny Tower, used the term with pride and even named their town Slagertown. Common men and women in trades of weaver, butcher, and candle stick makers held more pride in their pitiful tent city than any other wastelander the Operative had come across before.

The townsfolk of Slagertown labored for themselves and Tenpenny Tower. Menial tasks like washing, serving, and maintaining awaited those allowed to work in the tower. A position they chose to accrue capital so that one day they would be able to put up four walls, a roof, and flooring. Caps that would allow them to purchase important materials like bellows, rocks, and seed. Tenpenny Tower was a means to an end, not one of subjugation. To support their own, Slagertown designated a medical tent, a kitchen tent, and communal tent that served as meeting hall, game room, and cafeteria. This communal tent was the largest of them all and stood in the middle of the diamond shape of the tent city, it was also where they served an alcoholic drink that was made from maize and similar to ale. Each man, woman, and family lived in tents around this single large structure.

Colin Moriarty Junior was reminded of Megaton, Springvale, Rosie's Republic, and Canterbury Commons. Individuals who came together to take mounds of shit and churned out a livelihood. Slagertown was Megaton before the walls. Slagertown was Springvale before the prison, gambling, and whores. Slagertown was Rosie's Republic before she was elected to office. Slagertown was Canterbury Commons before Ernest Roe's trading Caravan Empire. J.R. loved that about working for a caravan, being able to see startups like this that were bastions of hope. His thoughts traveled to why he left the life of caravans to put on the armor of the Brotherhood of Steel. A glimmer flickering in his eyes as he sipped the tankard of maize ale, _these people are putting down roots just as I have with the Citadel_. Cold nights of winter, limited sources of heat, and boredom led to the largest tent being filled late into the night by Slags, wanderers, and J.R.

The tent flap opened and a group walked into the large meeting hall. Three people in worn out leather armor with enough pouches and pockets to make them merchants, a swagger to indicate a raider heritage, and a displeased look on their faces. A familiar brand of 'eVc' could be seen on their shoulders. In an instant, the merriment in Grant Fairtrade's face drained as he saw the Virginians. It took a while for Colin to catch on to Grant's mood, but the Operative kept smiling, chuckling, and sipping his ale. All eyes turned to the Consortium merchants. The two men did not appear significant, save for the fact that they followed the commands of an older woman. She was short, thick, and matronly. Her face was aged past the forty, or so, years J.R. presumed to be her age. Tightly coiled dark hair hung from her scalp like a weeping willow parted evenly in the middle, a single patch grew in gray. A nose, flared out in anger, appeared small to the breadth of her whole face. Thin upper lip, held so tight one could read a pulse through it from the blood flowing through the veins. Had she not been so upset, her lips might have been more lively, full, and thick like that of her hips and build.

"We have waited long enough," she slammed her hand on one of the tables in the meeting hall, her voice harsh, airless, and sultry. "Where is Janowic?"

Fairtrade shifted in his seat, the question hung like the putrid stench of decay at the sight of a fresh kill. Everyone else in the tent felt uneasy with the attention this woman from the Consortium commanded. Murmurs were shared between Slags. The sound of moving lips without answers agitated the Virginian merchants. She slammed her hand down on the table to call attention to the question and quiet those in the tent that offered no answer. Several people jumped with a startle, not expecting the loud sound. The older woman sauntered in the direction that J.R. and Fairtrade sat. Her eyes held an understanding that translated into her body language, appraising the two men and then fixating on the local trader.

"Janowic was sent here to talk with you, Fairtrade," the allegation was not verbalized, but implied point blankly.

"Just as I told your man, time and again, I ain't e'er gonna join you," Grant's voice was strong, but his gaze did not meet the woman's confirming her suspicions.

"You admit to being the last seen with Janowic," the accusation was mounting in her tone, her fingers curling into a tight fist in both hands.

"And all he'e will attest th't your man left my shop," there were murmurs of agreement from the crowd, the Slags pulling for their own. He looked up slowly to her furrowed brow, his eyes looking past her shoulders to the two other Consortium men, "now take your boys an' git movin'."

"You have lied to the Virginia Economic Consortium," she seethed, confident in her gut feeling but lacking the any evidence or even the ability to enforce her will. Chairs and benches fell backward as mugs, tankards, and bottles clanked and shattered as several Slags stood up, ready for a fight. The two male VEC merchant raiders slowly reached for the grips of their weapons, preparing to throw down as the woman leaned in closer to stare in Grant Fairtrade's eyes, her fists pressed to the table top.

"Whoa, there," interceded Colin, speaking for the first time since the representative of the Virginians made her inquiries. "Let's take a breath and not jump to any conclusions."

"Who the _fuck_ are you to impede the Virginia Economic Consortium," snarled the woman as her men pushed forward, and Colin gently held out his hands to stop them.

"My friends call me J.R.," introduced the Brotherhood Operative, as he tried to counteract her grimace with a smile and found his own grin faltering, "but I don't think you'll view me as a friend. I'm Colin Moriarty Junior, perhaps you've heard of my family?"

"Mor…Moriarty? Moriarty of Megaton," she asked for confirmation and J.R. answered with a nod as she stood back, shocked at his presence in such a backwater shithole. Townsfolk of Slagertown, who had accepted this man on the word of Grant Fairtrade as former caravan trader, could not believe their ears; their astonishment was pushed aside to revel in their floundering words of the once confident Virginian, "please forgive this lowly representative, we hope this has not fouled your father's…your…Megaton's opinion of the VEC, the relationship…possible relationship between your father…your town and…our organization…please forgive this…."

The merchant raiders had backed off, but the threat they posed for the town, raising the issue of Janowic's death again. Gritting his jaw, looking at the people of Slagertown as the cogs in his brain turned, and before he knew it the words came out of his mouth. "The first time I heard of this little group of yours was after a gun fight with this man of yours. What was his name, Janowic?"

Grant Fairtrade stood up, about to come clean with the events of the day, but a strong hand from the large man behind him grabbed his shoulder and forced him down quickly. "I see…well…it is regrettable that you…I'm sure Janowic well deserved…he obviously did not know who you where, Mister Moriarty. Mistakes happen, and hopefully can be…forgiven," she pandered hopefully to see a reaction show on his face.

Not even a flicker crossed his face, the once charming smile had been replaced early on with a straight face, "forgiven is not the same as forgotten," said the Operative evenly, for he had a long memory.

"It is good practice to end a meeting as better friends than bitter enemies," the old merchant saying burnt in his ears as the three VEC members began to back away from the tent.

"I have plenty of friends here," J.R.'s arms swept out wide to indicate all those that stood up and remained in the town hall tent.

"Then do not see this as the end to our conversation, Mister Moriarty," the comment was both a warning and promise from the woman. Like cowardly dogs, the Virginians sulked out of the tent with the tails between their legs. Slags laughed and patted Colin on the back, a few of them were not pleased with the words exchanged with the VEC, and the Operative could not blame them. His only hope would be that the Consortium now thought it was he who had killed Janowic, but Slagertown was still in the crosshairs.

Revelry broken, several townsfolk left the tent, and Colin remained to drink. Grant chewed the inside of his cheek, a question burning in his gut that J.R. knew would be there, "you got a question, ask it, Fairtrade."

Pulling his unkempt hair back, the grease and dirt holding it back like he had faced a bomb blast, Grant could not look into Colin's eyes, "why did you, a Moriarty, save m' ass? Fuck, why didn' you tell me you we'e a Moriarty?"

Raising his glass, J.R. simple smiled, "good ol' boys need to stick together against these new caravan drivers," and with a shrug he added, "I prefer not to be judged based on my father."

"Well if you're chara'ter is anythin' like you've been with me, seems I'm gonna have to open a tab on owin' you favors," chuckled the retired traveling merchant, understanding that a family name can have a weight far greater than one's own characteristics.

"And I hope I never need to collect them," joked J.R. as sat back and sipped his maize ale. "I've been meaning to ask, how is trade with my father?"

Grant's smile faltered a little as looked around, "I do have a bi' of an issue with your…with Megaton supplies," Moriarty raised an eyebrow at the news. The trouble with Billy Creel's caravans was well understood, "when are we gonna see new stock? No offenses, J.R., things we can make do wit'out some luxuries. But since Megaton limited it's trade…."

"Sorry, but Megaton hasn't limited our trade out here," Colin frowned as he held up three fingers, "we've increased trade to Tenpenny Tower nearly threefold, running practically all our caravans this way. Mister Burke and my father have set up numerous trade deals for brahmin, chems, meds, and drinks."

"We ain't seeing any of it for nearly a year now," Grant commented, the big man next to him overheard the conversation and nodded.

"Tol' us we're lucky ta be livin' in safety und'r the protection of their guards. Said those things were luxuries," the course sound of this man's voice like putting gravel in a grinder, suds from the ale on his upper lip clung like a foam mustachio on his dirty square face.

Colin Moriarty Junior looked at his half-drunk beer, _how many times had his mug been refilled without question by these people?_ He asked himself, deciding to admit a truth to this community, "I…I'm here to talk with Allistair Tenpenny because…well…the trade is strained between Megaton and Tenpenny."

"Talking to Tenpenny is as good as talking to yourself," Grant rolled his eyes, elaborating on the comment, "I tried to open up my shop for trade with those Tower bastards…they barely let me in until I had to undress and show mah skin."

"Fuckin' rotters," grumbled the giant man, "caught the tail end a one, or two, of 'em runnin' from my fields. They're held up in Warrington Station, in the tunnels like rats. Locked it up, so can't figure a way t' get in, not that I would go by my lonesome. No-sir-ree, mah hide worth more to me than any carrot."

"Had one in my shop the other day," Fairtrade shivered as he recalled the ghoul, "tried to steal some food, made a mess of my store. I chased him away. My shot went wide, into the door frame. Luckily, I didn't get bit."

Colin rubbed his forehead with the base of his palm, "nothing I've seen suggests ghoulification is passed on by a bite."

"You're friends with many ghouls," the giant man asked the Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

J.R. Smiled as he undid the grimy pre-war tie he wore, his sleeves rolled up, "I know them fairly well," he pointed to a faint scar on his left forearm, "Point Lookout, five years back."

"That ain't nothin', J.R.," teased Fairtrade as he down his ale and took of his neck scarf with several twists to show a gnarled pinkish scar on his darken skin. "Ten years ago while exploring the tunnels of Quant for…supplies…bastard took me at a dark corner."

"What was her name," asked the giant man, smiling as Grant and Colin laughed.

"Like you have any scars to share, Farmer," chuckled Fairtrade as he redid his scarf, J.R, kept his forearms bare.

"I got one for yah," winked the man named Farmer as he lifted his leg up onto the table, his boots were well worn, caked with brahmin shit in the grooves, and patched with said animal's leather hide in homemade repairs. Farmer's pants could only be described as filth, under which lay bristly burlap cloth that would last a long time. Rolling up his pant leg with his thick, dirt covered, sausage like fingers, Farmer showed a nearly destroyed right shin. Half of the calf was missing, but the wounds were too smooth to be caused from a beast, environment, or an accident.

"Farmer, that's a gunshot wound," J.R. had seen enough to know the style of the round used to disfigure the man, his shock was meant for the fact that Farmer had survived at all.

"Yup, that's is wha' you get when you refuse the Virginians," Farmer finished his drink in one gulp as he slapped the Operative on the back with a wide meaty paw. "You should have seen the othe' guy!"

The men laughed heartedly and other joined only to lapse into a silence as a musician began play a feisty tune on a handmade pipe. Some other locals began dancing jigs. Another musician joined with a stringed instrument on a hollowed body of wood that was shaped with womanly curves. Other men beat their fists on the tables to the tune of the two musicians. As they switched to another tune, the few women in Slagertown began to dance for their men. Some men whopped, others whistled, while J.R., Grant, and Farmer drank and laughed.

Outside of the tent city, three well-traveled merchants of the Virginia Economic Consortium conversed in hush voices as they walked to the encampment made on share cliff side with a southwest facing slope. Their support staff played cards and huddled around a fire pit between their tents and main armored caravan. A lone figure stood on a south facing terrace wearing a red smoking jacket. Through the amplified lenses of a sniper rifle, this figure spied on the VEC merchants and their caravan crew to the southwest, and the still illuminated temporary town of squalor to the immediate south. A few paces to the north, in a run-down train yard that was used for the sport of the man behind the snipe scope, stood a group of figures. Some awkwardly shuffled, others squatted alone in the dirt, but only four stood together closely with one using twin lens belonging to a pair of binoculars. Dull eyes of this being peered at the man in the southern balcony of the tower, along with the tent city, and the merchant encampment; without a word, the being raised a gloved hand to his three comrades and motioned to enter the station. They left in silence. Those without sentient thought stayed behind, wandering the train yard helplessly, squatting in the dirt, and any noise catching their ears caused them to rush over to it like a moth to a flame.

Allistair Tenpenny was an infamous figure in the wasteland, built on a long reputation of pecuniary opportunism at the expense of those deemed his inferior. He sat out on his balcony enjoying the chilled morning air, the sun's rays warmed his pale, wrinkled, and poke marked skin. Crumbs gathered on the corners of his mouth, a boney hand covered in translucent skin dabbed away the food remnants as he began to nibble away at the iguana sandwich. He was not physically impressive, nor did he command fear in the eyes of people that beheld him. When he came to the former United States of America from the former United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland on a boat that had been sea swept into the basin of the Chesapeake, he looked like five year old caked in filth. In fact, Allistair Tenpenny had been ten and emaciation had stunted his growth. This little boy adapted to the streets of the Independent City of Baltimore, scrounging from left overs and bits and pieces he could steal. Seventy years later, Allistair Tenpenny found himself in control of a silent economic empire, controlling more wealth and people than any could have foreseen in his future when his weak wobbly legs touched American soil. The first cap he made went to the purchase of an iguana meat sandwich, a meal that has meant more to Tenpenny than all the capital he could ever muster.

Tenpenny Tower was the most ostentatious building outside of the D.C. Ruins. An ivory tower guarded by security personnel in pristine white armor, all mere window dressing to the wealth amassed by Allistair Tenpenny. For the amount he had acquired, the brazenness of the tower was not nearly boastful enough. It did not describe the long reach of his economic empire, nor his business savvy, or ruthlessness. Clean water, continual energy, pre-War luxuries that the residents paid top cap to enjoy were all afforded by Tenpenny for himself first, and only shared with those that could afford said indulgences. Only one man, Tenpenny's personal aide, knew the whole truth of the elderly man's impact. Mister Burke, wearing the fedora that garnered him easy recognition, joined the old Englishman as he finished up his midday meal. Tenpenny demanded a rundown of his holdings and affairs three times a day, and now with the cesspool city of Grayditch gaining celebrity, a recent copy of that city's newspaper. The state of his silent empire was like an overgrown garden, in need of constant gardening.

"Punctual as ever, Mister Burke," greeted the old man as he covered his plate with a cloth napkin.

"Sir, if you please, we can begin," Tenpenny nodded as Burke stood there as he informed his boss. "The Five Settlement Talks are still in all available media, notably Galaxy News Radio and the Grayditch Guardian. Henry Fleet is rallying for a second convention, one to be a lot wider in scope than the first convention. Several settlements have responded, however our holdings remain steadfast. It is worthy to note that rumors have been traveling by mouth of Eulogy Jones and Paradise Falls sitting on the second convention. It may be prudent for us to remind Mister Jones that we are one of his biggest clients and could easily shift our purchases to the Carolinas. That is your purview, Mister Tenpenny, however you know I can easily arrange the labor purchases from the Carolinas."

"Carolina slaves tend to be of lesser stock than those offered from Paradise Falls, far too much indolence and illness. Draft a response to Paradise Falls on our concerns with the rumors as of late, and send a request Jubal Anders at the Kerr trading post on the condition of his current stock," Tenpenny mused on the opportunity of playing two competing trade outfits against each other, tapping his fingers on the wooden arms of his Victorian style wingback chair.

"I will draft those letters after our meeting," confirmed Mister Burke as he continued on the rundown, "more information has surfaced on the Sons and Daughters of Maryland, though still incomplete. Sightings of their emblems have been spotted in Canterbury Commons, Drayden, and Point Lookout. Their home base is most certainly Saint Mar, as there had been no inkling of this group until the Brotherhood of Steel saved them. Much of their governance is a cooperative with every member having a voice, their leadership is localized cells. Father Varro has been receptive to this riff raff, but no direct acceptance or even a benediction."

"Has the Priest responded to my offer," asked the old man.

"Varro was indeed…humbled…by the offer, but he has neither accepted nor denied your assistance. He made it clear that he was nothing but a spiritual leader in Point Lookout, and would be pleased for you to attend his modest church," informed Burke as he crossed his arms and bit his lips in displeasure.

"The human spirit has no value," dismissed Allistair with the wave of his ancient hand, "but the man who can bend the soul can be of immense value."

"Indeed, Mister Tenpenny, but as of late the Dunwich family has been more attentive to our needs," Mister Burke knew he didn't need to remind the old man, but thought it best not to count out old families.

"Obadiah lacked vision, his grandchildren are an improvement on that superstitious old fool," Allistair had little interest in black magic and voodoo.

"The Dunwich family has already allowed imports from the Virginia Economic Consortium at the small settlements of Breton Bay and McKay Cove. The first installation was secured by our representative at their main dock. He is in the process of purchasing land for a VEC trading post to protect against the Vandykers raids," informed Burke.

"Make sure to purchase the adequate armaments for the trading post, the return on that land takes at least three years before a positive return," Tenpenny licked his lip, finding a crumb from his sandwich still in the corner of his mouth.

"I will ensure it is," agreed Mister Burke, not wanting to have a repeat of their first trading posts along the locally named Corridor Ninety-Five. "Besides the offshore raids of the Vandykers, the increased banditry from Evergreen Mills…."

Allistair held up his wizened hand to stop his aide, a slight squint in his eyes alerted Burke to the rebuke he was about to receive; "Mister Burke, your failure with Megaton has led to it becoming a fairly substantial force in the Capital. I would not presume to make the same folly with those rag tag band of rabble rousers. Littlehorn and Associates have already been contracted."

"Mister Tenpenny, the state of Littlehorn and Associates with Talon Company will not lead to a successful operation at Evergreen Mills. Commander Jabsco, who has been reliable in the past, is not of that caliber any longer," objected Burke as he quieted down upon seeing the prolonged look of displeasure from Tenpenny.

"It has been decided," the finality in the old man's voice meant the conversation was not up for review.

"Locally, Chief Gustavo has noted there has been a rise in internal theft and external violence, namely from the shanty town to the south west. These Slags have been mugging and raiding visitors along with residents. Internally, the children of the residents have been acting out and could be under the leadership of the Ambassador from Megaton's brat. Gustavo has yet to make any claim stick to this troublemaker, but it is his opinion that Tenpenny Tower is on its way to forming a home grown gang." The fedora rearing aide adjusted his tortoise rimmed glasses, "it would explain the internal burglaries and trespasses into secure sections."

"Unscrupulous youth must be beaten into obedience, fine his parents until he changes or…," Allistair was interrupted, an action he only afforded a few times to his aide.

"He is not a resident's son, sir. This Patrick Keyes is the ward and assistant to our _esteemed_ Ambassador from Megaton," the tone was snide when referring to Colin Moriarty Junior.

After a long pause, Allistair stood up and viewed the walls of Megaton at the north east horizon; "it has been long overdue, and would have been simpler to eradicate them from the face of this earth, but our attempts to civilize the barbarians must come to an end. It was a noble idea to civilize them, an idea that has worked well on the road to Richmond, but has failed to move north. Alas, you cannot civilize the ones who refuse to emulate your high standards. It is time for us to cut all the ties that bind us to Megaton."

"I am the master of rolling dice!" The exclamation from Farmer rang throughout the tent as he three of the five die rolled with sixes facing up.

Grant smirked as he drank a tankard with clear moonshine, it different choice from the typical ale as he had eaten early; Colin rolled his die to have four threes facing up, "try again, Farmer?"

"DAMNIT, check his die," ordered the large man from Slagertown as he drank his ale.

"No sense in being a sore loser," Fairtrade commented well naturedly.

"Don't you have a store to tend," suds and foam were on Farmer's unshaven stubble.

"If Grant ran his store as he ran up his tab, he'd give Tenpenny a run for his money," J.R. smiled broadly as Fairtrade grabbed his heart in feigned being mortally wound. It was little moments like these that made him regret giving up the life of the caravanning for the Brotherhood of Steel.

"Are those VEC boys giving you trouble again," Farmer asked seriously, patting a rusty blade hilt on his belt.

The shopkeep's smile faltered for the first time as he told Farmer to leave it alone. The big settler would not hear no as an answer and pressured the little man. Grant got up and made for the exit as Farmer tried to stop him. Shaking the large man's hand of his shoulder, he briskly walked out the town hall tent. Farmer tried to stand up, but having consumed several tankards of ale, could only sway in place before sitting back down in defeat. J.R. held the large man's shoulder to steady him on the bench before following Fairtrade out of the tent.

In the sunlight, the groggy eyed shopkeep blinked several times to clear his vision and made his way to one of the only buildings left standing in the region. Compared to Tenpenny Tower, the one story structures that stood near it were rather dwarfed. Slowdowns were common in business, times when customers were not buying as much as before, but the near blackout of any purchasing for a whole week was demoralising at best. Lucky's edged closer to complete solvency, at the worst. The Virginian Economic Consortium did not take no for an answer when acquiring merchants, those that didn't join willingly were roughed up or killed to get them out of the VEC's way. Slagertown had rallied around Grant as best they could, but the VEC's response had turned all trade away from the small town and Fairtrade's shop.

Colin Moriarty Junior knew this man was on hard financial times partly because of his actions. Shelves in Lucky's had dust and cobwebs where products used to be lined neatly in a row. Brown stains on the floor remained of the blood from where the VEC agent named Janowic had fallen. In the back room, J.R. heard rustling and slurred swears. As he got closer the room where Grant was making a ruckus so load to cause the Megaton man wince through his alcohol laden brain.

"Will you stop...making such a...racket," pleaded J.R. as he ducked an old frying pan, worn well with travel.

"Where did I put you?" Fairtrade searched for something in the footlockers and metal cabinets of his apartment.

"Maybe I could help?" Offered J.R. as he picked up a discarded leather carapace armor, the harden skin molded to a man's upper body.

"Maybe you...no...not there," Grant stumbled a little and sat down with his back to the foot of the bed. His hand strayed under a bundle of fabric and a wide smile spread across his face. The shopkeeper pulled out a long necked glass bottle wrapped in wicker and corked with an air tight cap, "Ah ha!"

With glee only seen from a kid finding Bubbleworth's Everlasting Worthwhile Bubblegum in a copy of Grognak the Barbarian, Grant opened the bottle and drank a long swig. He wiped the dribble on his chin with the back of his hand, resting it on his thigh as he stared at the contents floating in the drink. The unblinking eye ball of a pickled young gecko looked back at J.R. as he realised what this highly alcoholic beverage was supposed to be. Gecko wine was more of a novelty now than the esteemed tribes, including the Allegheny, attributed it as a medicinal tonic. It was said to preserve the spirit of the animal within the liquor and bestow the ability on the person who drank the contents. J.R. took some time to remember that the gecko was supposed to infuse the drinker with the ability of adaptation.

"I never took you for the...superstitious type," commented the Brotherhood of Steel Operative as he dropped the leather armor, "Grant?"

"Colin, my dear friend," the liquor had an awakening effect on Fairtrade.

"Cut the sweet talk, Grant," J.R. was perplexed at his local friend, "you never let Farmer get under your skin."

"That big oaf couldn't get under my skin even if I was a yao guai fur coat," the shopkeep laughed at his own joke, finding it funny even though J.R. didn't agree. The BIOS operative trained a penetrating stare on the Grant, "don't fucking say anything!"

"Grant, what is going on? You run out of the hall to get...a drink, one that is backwoods medicine. I just don't get it," Colin rested his ass and lower back against a cabinet as he held the corners with his hands.

"Do you...know how tough it is?" The question was rhetorical so J.R. kept his mouth shut, preferring to listen to his friend, "nearly my whole life has been trading, selling, and being an honest man at that. But now...these BASTARDS can't even allow one honest man to make a living freely!"

"What do you plan to do about it, Grant?" J.R. didn't want to be an accomplice to an attempt at suicide by Fairtrade entering a VEC camp guns blazing. _Heck, I'm here looking for answers as to what Tenpenny is doing, not people around the Tower_, he thought about the way his involvement was becoming more in depth daily, without even trying.

"Taking up an old offer," replied Fairtrade as he staggered when attempting to stand, "care to join?"

Grant handed the bottle of tribal medicine over, the gecko eye ball bobbing up and down. Moriarty looked at the half wicker covered alcohol, _do not get in the middle of this_, he thought as he hand automatically reached for the liquor despite his thoughts. "What do we need to do?"

Fairtrade smiled a grin that was all tooth, and a hint of mischievousness, "J.R., we're going to trade, like in the old days."

"It's a hole in the ground," commented J.R. with the imposing sight of Tenpenny Tower looming close as they approached a derelict metro tunnel. Light shined on broken glass, asphalt degraded from years of erosion crumbled under the increased weight of Grant and J.R. Packs of items were slung on their shoulders and strapped to their backs in a way to distribute the weight while walking. One hand on a strap wrapped around his chest, the other holding the uncorked liquor, Grant walked down the subway steps while throwing back swigs of gecko wine.

"A hole that leads to a tunnel," he opened the gate at the bottom of the entrance, "and leads to an untapped market of trade."

_This is stupid_, thought Colin as he entered the dark tunnel. Following his friend, the operative found himself at a lower level platform that was overlooked by a second level with a staircase and ticketing booth. A double protected fence cut the lower level in two, everything below the second platform was guarded by a chain link enclosure and a man made barricade of debris. The second level platform was equally well protected with walled barricades eight feet high topped with barbed wire. A hole in the dome of the subway platform had a beam of light from construction lamps connected to a fusion battery lighting the majority of the space.

Another set of construction lights illuminated the lower level chain link enclosure. Two tracks were covered in debris, pieces of broken platform, and crumbled portions of the concrete dome. Construction lamps left little room for sneaking up on the entrance. It took J.R. a second but then he realized that they were past the defenses with their direct route through the metro tunnel. The gates and walled platforms protected whoever inhabited this place from those traveling deeper in the tunnels. Turning right, Grant and J.R. saw three rotting face ghouls draped in rags holding automatic weapons in disrepair equally only to their physical state.

"Hold it, smoothskins," ordered one of the ghouls with gray and green skin, an empty socket for a right eye.

"Wait, just hear me out," slurred Grant, not recognizing these ghouls from the ones he had met before, "I have business with Roy...Roy Phillips."

"Roy Phillips is dead," growled the one eyed ghoul as he motioned with his gun down the closet tunnel, ordering to another ghoul, "lock the gate up tight this time, Vaughn!"

J.R. knew not to say anything in this type of situation, he was an outsider among outsiders. If he were to talk, he might have made things worse for Grant, or gotten them both killed. The two men followed the one eyed ghoul as the others watched their backs. Fairtrade began to get nervous as they got deeper into the secured subway line.

"I'm sorry, J.R….I didn't mean to...if this goes south, I'm so sorry," stammered the shopkeep as he tripped on the rubble and debris in the tunnel.

"It's okay, Grant, just keep cool," soothed the Brotherhood Operative as they continued to walk.

At a maintenance substation, the one eyed ghoul removed a set of keys from his waistband and opened the door. A ghoulish man sat at a table with books and several candles burning. Cracked bifocals were held to his head by a strap along the back of his skull as he had no ears or nose. His pale skin was rotted blue and gray around his mouth and lips. Bruises under his eyes did not come from his condition, but rather his sleep deprivation. On the table sat an old motorcycle helmet with biker goggles and a ten millimeter submachinegun.

"Fairtrade," greeted the bifocaled ghoul, no sense of welcome in his voice. "It has been a long while since we last saw each other."

"Michael, it's good to see you too. I'm sorry to hear about Roy, but it seems you have things running very well here," Grant smiled as he opened his arms wide to indicate all the good he and J.R. carried.

"You were not so open to our offer before," the comment was delivered with such scathing anger in a Michael Masters' quiet voice, Grant's only response was silent shame.

After a pause of reflection, Fairtrade moved on, "which is why I am here now to rectify that short sighted response I gave before."

"Roy was rather upset with you...original response," Michael Masters sardonic sense of nostalgia left no one at ease, "he sure would be eating his hat if he saw you down here with us… ghouls."

"Roy was a good ghoul," the words were out of his mouth before Grant could catch himself. The only human features unchanged on Michael's face, his blue eyes, narrowed in response.

"More than you could aspire to be, Fairtrade," the remainder of Masters' rotten teeth grinding in his jaw.

"Michael, don't let my mistakes wreck what can happen between us," negotiated Grant as he laid down the packs, "I am no Roy, and I can see you are better than he was."

"You are right, Grant, I am not Roy," for the first time, Masters looked over to J.R., "Phillips would not have allowed a Tenpenny Resident down here for so long, still alive."

"A Tenpenny Resident wouldn't have been caught dead down here," drawled Colin Moriarty Junior as he dropped his bags with Grant, "luckily, I am not one of those pretentious sons of bitches."

Masters laughed once, in a hard guttural sound, "then who are you," asked the ghoul as he appraised the man.

"Colin Moriarty Junior, of Megaton and Springvale," the Brotherhood of Steel Operative replied as he enjoyed the flicker of shock in Masters' eyes.

"A Megaton man in Tenpenny clothes," it was a thought said out loud as Michael Masters pondered for a second, "I've been alive for far too long."

"I was sent as an ambassador by my father to find out why Tenpenny has neglected his contracts with us. As I have been here with no word on when the old fool would talk to me, I have entered into business deals on behalf of Megaton and Springvale." J.R. formerly introduced himself and his intentions to the ghoul leader.

"Neither of us is as we seem," commented Michael as he sat back in his chair. "I used to be a scientist. I have...two doctorates in electronic engineering and biology, back in a world when that meant something. Now, well now I am a slowly decomposing genius with limited senses of smell, taste, and touch but a gracious longevity even Methuselah would be envious towards."

The blank look on J.R.'s and Grant's face caused Masters to roll his eyes, "so trade is what has brought the son of Moriarty and a retired caravan runner to my...lovely abode. VEC leaning too heavily on you, Grant?"

Colin held a hand on Grant's chest to stop him from speaking, "what do you know about the VEC?"

Masters slouched in his chair slightly, his gray hands on his flat stomach as he laughed so hard it cracked the corners of his mouth, "karma's a real bitch, kid, you'd be wise to remember that."

"Thanks for the lesson, grandpa, but that doesn't tell me anything new about the VEC," said J.R. as the other ghouls around them in the substation began to get testy.

Masters held up a left hand with only his index, middle, and thumb fully attached on it, as a motion to stop the other ghouls. "We were doing great things in science. Amazing things! New fronts were opening in the ways to advance the human genome; the Pan – Immunity Virion Project was our future. Along with cybernetic implants and gene splicing, scientists like Doctors Barnett, Von Feldon, Merrick, and I were going to cure the human condition. Then the human condition bounced back, in full unrelenting force." Michael indicated his ghoulified state as he continued, "so too is the story of the VEC and Allistair Tenpenny."

"Explain," asked Colin as Masters narrowed his eyes.

"Do not think you can order me here, smoothskin," the other ghouls adjusted themselves to be more threatening, "but I do enjoy when you short lifers squabble among each other. The Capitol Wasteland has been in chaos for centuries, only recently has peace brought prosperity for a few. Others thrived in the chaos, like our esteemed Mister Tenpenny. Governing peace can be as dangerous as during chaotic war."

The look in Colin's eyes caught Masters', "I see you are trying to put it all together, Mister Moriarty. The trade talks between your town and the others ended with the removal of Tenpenny, it brought back enough chaos to raise the Richmond Question. It is a question that Tenpenny wants to answer with conquest."

"He already owns the Ninety - Five Corridor," Grant rolled his eyes.

"The VEC is an organized gang for Tenpenny's purpose, to destabilize the region. Richmond is a city that is important now, just as it was in the period before the Great War. Tenpenny is no fool; the James River bisects Old World Virginia from east to west, while Route Ninety - Five bisects it from north to south. The soil can still maintain crops, especially high capital foodstuffs. Back in my day, tobacco was the king of Virginia, along with whiskey." Masters licked his lips at that fond memory, "Richmond, or more importantly the communities that make up the old city, is primed for falling into the hands of Tenpenny. All of this, the VEC, the Five Settlement Talks, trade agreements between towns, were meant to ensure chaos so he could become King Allistair of Virginia."

"How can I take your word on this...statement," Colin was in disbelief.

"Don't believe me, smoothskin," Masters shook his head as he leaned forward. "But can you and your father really risk it if a Kingdom grows in your backyard as you two delve deeper into chaos? How is it that a...man...such as me has all this...speculation to share? It is the same way I know it was Grant who killed that VEC thug and not you." His index finger pointed to J.R.

Grant looked nervous, the ghoul sat back smug in the shopkeeper's response, "and all I would ask in return for not sharing that information with concerned parties is that we enjoy the same rates in trade as your former...human...clientele."

"Now, Michael, I have a family…," pleaded Fairtrade as the ghoul interrupted swiftly.

"Grant, I know you're not married, or even fucking someone. I also know you don't have kids," Masters looked at the shopkeeper from over his bifocals as he turned his gaze to Colin, "the same would go for any deal with Megaton."

"Only way for me to get my father onboard would to make Lucky's our trading post under the care of Mister Fairtrade," replied J.R. with a firm lipped response. "I still can't take your unsubstantiated claims as fact though. I would need proof to show my father, or he would dismiss it easily."

"Like father, like son," Masters looked away. "I do love to see your smoothskins fight, give me some time and I will get you the proof your father requires."

"I imagine the cost will be high," confirmed J.R. as he dropped the last bag from his back.

"Price can be discussed later," affirmed Michael Masters as he looked at the bags, "but now it is time for Grant to show us his wares."

"I have some great items you and yours people will enjoy," embellished the natural born salesman with a wide smile.

Sitting at a long wooden table with antique looking chairs, J.R. felt more like a pawn in a chess game than ever before. A few days after his meeting with the ghouls, Allistair Tenpenny requested a sit down meeting to see the ambassador of Megaton for a face - to - face discussion. Had the Brotherhood of Steel Operative been naive? Speculations from a lone ghoul and his own observations informed him that he had struck a chord with Tenpenny. Colin sat there patiently knowing he must not betray any of his knowledge and attempt to have the old man divulge as much as possible. The BIOS file, which was small and not filled with substantial information, described the old man as cunning, conniving, and highly intelligent. After this meeting, J.R. would certainly be adding more to that dossier.

"Mister Moriarty," greeted the old man with an English accent in a cheery voice, with his hand he indicated the chair for both of them to sit down, "please, do take a sit. It does take me some time to get in and out of my chairs these days."

"Thank you, Mister Tenpenny," Colin sat down and pushed into the table as Allistair hobbled over to the table and slowly eased himself into the chair opposite J.R.

Armand came forward and pushed Tenpenny's chair into the table, "careful, you heathen in civilized clothes."

"Sorry, sir," Armand backed away as another of the servants from the tent city of Slagertown began to lay out the first course, a soup of brahmin meat, cream, and vegetables.

Colin smiled and thanked the girl serving him, she was one of the elder daughters of Farmer, she was earning caps while her parents tilled the soil. The dress and attire of the maids, a title unfamiliar to J.R., was of long sleeved black dress with white aprons and bonnets that kept hair hidden. Female servants usually served in one capacity, to feed the pleasures of their owner. Allistair Tenpenny's approach seemed more dignified than having to wear skimpy outfits or no clothing. However, _the pay could never satisfy the eccentric needs of the Tower's owner_, thought Colin as he noticed the stacked milk bottles. The over organization and oddly placed bottles held a liquid that was not milk or water, but seemed preserved well enough with a tight cap.

"How have you been enjoying my hospitality," asked the elderly man, the wrinkles at the corner of his mouth tightening in a forced smile.

"I have had much time to enjoy Tenpenny Tower and its environs. I especially enjoy the food from Cafe Beau Monde," the snide comment was hidden in the complement, a true talent possessed by every Moriarty.

"Madam Primrose is one of the gems of this world, I am so glad she has spent many years with us," soup was the first course and Allistair dug in slowly and deliberately. "Decidedly exquisite, truly delicious."

J.R. took the spoon above the soup dish, knowing he was copying Allistair's actions so as to not appear uncultured; the thick soup delicately warmed his palate, "this is different, but very enjoyable."

"As are many new and exciting experiences," agreed Tenpenny after he rang a bell for the second course to begin. The soup was removed before it could be finished, "tradition, though, does have an aspect one should favor."

"I can't say I am a… traditionalist," commented J.R. as he smelled the new course, skewered chunks of mirelurk meat and root vegetables in a kebab. "But I think it can grow on me...if favorable."

"Tradition does not grow, Mister Moriarty, it exists only if one is willing to accept it with a full embrace," lectured the old man as they ate the second course in silence. Just as before, Tenpenny ordered the dished to be cleared before the kebabs could be finished and J.R. kept his mouth shut at the wastefulness of this man. "Five course meals are not common in Megaton?"

"Scarcity is part of everyday life in both Megaton and Springvale," admitted the ambassador of the two towns to his wealthy host.

"Pardon my haste with the courses, I did not realize the plight of your… people… hung on your shoulders with the weight only known by Atlas," while the sarcasm was clear, J.R. did not comprehend the mythological reference.

"Tell me, Mister Tenpenny, do you make it a habit to insult your guests or am I a special circumstance," Allistair was shocked by J.R.'s blunt question, most people would try to ply him with platitudes after his insults. Moriarty's son was no sycophant.

"I hope you take my jests in stride, Mister Moriarty," Tenpenny was upset when Colin interrupted.

"I am J.R.," corrected the Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

"I do not appreciate it when talked over," Allistair was beside himself in a calm rage, "as for jests, I will hold my tongue as long as you respect me in my house."

J.R. nodded and they continued to eat the second course until the entree. Brahmin Wellington, coated in the pate of some fowl's liver and the crispy pastry from finely ground flour. The encasing trapped the combination of flavors and spices that left no unused juice of moisture. A servant girl cut the meat and served it by the slice to each man. The brahmin was still rare and bright red, but the warmed meat delighted J.R.'s taste buds through scent. Allowed to finish the whole course, they moved onto salad before lounging on the balcony as they sipped a sweet wine.

"Dessert wine, not the real McCoy but close enough to what was produced in the old world," Allistair mused.

"Mister Tenpenny, why did you call me up here after forcing me to wait so long?" J.R. was tired of wasting time.

"Are you and your… people… always so blunt," Tenpenny looked out to see the moon reflect light on the metal walls of Megaton.

"You are not known for acting without a motive," replied J.R. as he lounged back. "My guess is Patrick has gotten into real trouble or you want to finally talk trade."

"Your ward is Security Chief Gustavo's issue, not mine," Tenpenny rolled his eyes back to J.R. "As for trade with Megaton, it was as good as it lasted but I do believe that time is over."

"But opportunities have opened in other markets," finished J.R. as he set the glass down on the balcony bolster.

"Slags like to talk," responded the foreigner as he looked to the glow of the tent city.

"Most of those people come from Corridor Ninety - Five, a few even from Richmond," frowning as he picked up his glass again to finish his wine, "your actions tend to follow you, or so I've been told."

"Now that you know the true fate of your squalid little hole in the ground, are you going to run back to your father?" Tenpenny was testing J.R., the insult seemed foreign to the old man's tongue.

Colin Moriarty Junior laughed, "Mister Tenpenny, if I had that intention, Patrick and I would have left weeks ago."

"Potential trade with the Slags can't be that good," Allistair's eyes searched the skyline with a fire lit in his cold blue stare. "Shall we have one last exchange, a way to part terms well, Moriarty?"

"Depends on the value of what is being sold," Colin raised an eyebrow as he appraised this old relic of a man.

"I hear you enjoy the Federalist Lounge, so this might be of particular interest to you. The Virginia Economic Consortium is resupplying with several barrels of whiskey, rye, and medicinal grade antiseptic to our stores." Direct and to the point was not Tenpenny's style, "however, I'd be willing to sell some at cost as parting terms for our economic relationship."

"How much of a shipment are we talking about," the former trader in him showing on the surface.

"Fifteen casks of whiskey, ten casks of rye, and twenty casks of antiseptic," answered the Englishman as he leaned back, "I'd be willing to part with ten casks of antiseptic at two hundred caps each, five of whiskey at one hundred and thirty caps each, and five of rye at a hundred caps each."

"Thought you said you'd sell at cost," laughed J.R. as he did some quick math in his head, "I counter with fifteen casks of antiseptic at one hundred and seventy caps each, seven casks of whiskey at a hundred caps each, and five casks of rye at ninety caps each."

Tenpenny agreed to the terms, a gut feeling made Colin feel suspicious, "how do you usually seal an agreement, J.R.? I am not too familiar with Megaton customs."

Colin spat on his hand and offered it to Tenpenny, who refused the preferred hand with disgust on his face, causing the Brotherhood Operative to smile at reaction; "I have your word then, and a trust worthy man will never breach his personal contracts."

"An amicable end to a relationship of necessity," Allistair's old and wrinkled face tightened as he forced a smile, Colin's gut lurched in instinct, "I bid you a pleasant evening, Mister Moriarty."

Three days after, in the early hours of the morning with the windows open allowing the frosty winds of winter into his room, J.R. snored in his Tenpenny Tower mattress as he drooled. The alcohol shipment had yet to arrive at Tenpenny Tower, but the intoxicating liquor continued to flow at Slagertown. Colin Moriarty Junior had become skilled in waiting as an ambassador from Megaton. Sunlight was about to break over the horizon through his open window as the door to his suite was busted open, the lock ripped from the doorpost. Colin tried to get up in his blurred state, his hand reaching for the pistol under his pillow. Blurs of white, unclear in his vision, swooped in quicker than he could move to his pistol and knocked him out with the butt of a rifle to the back of J.R.'s head.

He woke up in a damp, dark, and odd smelling room that was the machine substation that regulated all the functions of Tenpenny Tower. Colin's arms were tied down to an old chair, his ankle bound to the chair's legs as well. Struggling wouldn't help him. The bonds were too tight, J.R. waited to see why he was put into this situation. The substation door opened with the clanking of metal and the creak of unoiled hinges. Little light in the room made recognizing the person that just walked in difficult until they were right in front of him. When Security Chief Gustavo spoke, the Brotherhood of Steel Operative realized that Tenpenny had ordered his detainment.

"Who do you work for," asked the Head of Security as he tightened the straps of the white leather gloves he wore.

"Your mother," snarled J.R as he rolled his head in an attempt to clear his mind from the heavy hit of the rifle. Gustavo grabbed a fistful of hair and punched him in the face from the side.

"Who do you work for," asked the Security Chief again.

"Seriously, your mom," replied Colin with a smile as the white armored man hit him again.

"Answer me, you fucking waster," Gustavo was getting flustered as he kept hitting the Ambassador of Megaton with his left hand, "who do you work for!"

After a few minutes the Chief of Security relented, just before he was about to begin again J.R. chuckled, "wait…wait…I mean this will all sincerity…your mom's cunt is amazing…nearly as good as he mouth…did you teach…," before he could finish, Gustavo sucker punched him in the stomach causing him to gasp for air.

"Funny man from Megaton, like that _punch_ line," the Chief of Security laughed at his own pun, before punching J.R. with his left fist in a white leather glove with all his might.

The Operative's right eye began to swell as all he felt was the lingering blunt pain. Now Colin struggled against his bounds because he wanted to murder this bastard. A metal taste crept into his mouth, _must have cut my inner cheek_, he determined. Darkness adjusted in his left eye to search the room as Gustavo fixed the sharp part in his brown hair. There was no one else in the room with him, a chilling thought as he used his one good eye to stare at the Chief of Security.

"Where is Patrick," anger and fear were mixed together as he felt it a little harder to breathe.

"Don't worry about him, you should be worried about yourself," he paused to crack his knuckles, "who do you work for, funny man?"

"You know damn well who I work for!" Shouted Moriarty as Gustavo punched him in the face again, a crunch came from his nose, and he could smell blood. When Gustavo stopped, J.R. looked up defiantly, through his pain, "I am Colin Moriarty Junior…of Megaton…and you will…regret crossing me…do you hear me…Gustavo?"

"Big words, funny man," blood dripped from the white leather gloves of the Chief of Security, "why did you hijack the booze caravan?"

"I did not…rob any caravan!" Yelled Colin as Gustavo punched him in the face until he blacked out.

Waking for a second time in the same damp room, Colin noticed he was alone. Breathing was labored through his broken noise, half bruised face, and hurt ribs. He spat out blood onto the floor, coughing a little, and waiting for his left eye to adjust to the darkness. Tasting blood, smelling it, Colin struggled against his bonds. He rocked the chair from side to side, tipping it onto his right. The tight cords that bound him to the chair legs and arms were cutting into his skin. He only wore a cloth covering his privates. They had even removed his underwear.

The cold damp floor made his flesh pimple and his breathing was impossible through his nose. _I need to get Patrick_, he thought, _you can get out of this, J.R._ Exhaling loudly from his mouth, the Brotherhood Operative swung his hip out feeling the wooden chair bend. After a few minutes of intense work, his left was free albeit bleeding. As Colin lay on his right side, it was harder to remove his right leg, taking nearly half an hour. J.R. was now able to stand up with chair hanging off him by the wrists. Picking the nearest wall, he slammed the wood against the metal of the substation in a loud clang.

"Shit," he hissed and as he exhaled knew that Gustavo would be on his way to investigate the sound. Two more solid hits and the ancient wooden chair splintered into pieces, the arms still tied to his wrists. Clanking of the metal door alerted J.R. He slinked into the corner near the door jamb; a move that Paladin Gunny would have been proud to see his pupil execute in this real life exercise.

Security Chief Gustavo and a second armed guard walked into the room to see the wood debris. "Where the fuck did he got," asked the guard with Gustavo. The metal substation door closed behind them, to prevent the prisoner's escape. From the corner, J.R. leapt out and sank the pointed piece of the chair arm still bound to him between the combat armor plates at the guard's clavicle. Through the soft tissue, the wooden stake punctured vital organs. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative turned the dying guard with blood stained white combat armor into a human shield. Close range shots from Gustavo were stopped by the armor and dead human flesh.

As the last shell hit the metal substation floor, the Chief of Security showed the first sign of fear as he cursed out. J.R. let go of his shield, the dead guard dropping to the floor, as he grinned with blood and bruising on his face. Gustavo stepped back, pushing the slide of his pistol back and dropping the empty clip. He was not quick enough to reload. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative used the wooden arms to box the ears of Gustavo. The parted hair became a mess as J.R. held the armored chest plate of the pristine white combat armor and punched the Security Chief in the face, against and again. Colin broke the man's nose along with busting his high cheekbones, and cutting up his face.

Eventually, the Operative let go of Gustavo to allow the man to fall and give his broken and aching knuckles a rest. His bruised and cut up hands scoured Gustavo's pockets for a knife to cut his bonds. The blade was clumsy in his stiff fingers, the cool metal cut into his warm flesh as deep as the cords, sawing away the rope. Security Chief, Gustavo, turned his head and coughed up blood on the cold damp floor, his hair soaking in the blood of his dead guard.

"You think…you'll get out…alive," he said as he turned on his stomach, withering like a snake.

J.R. pressed his heel into the back of Gustavo's knee, grinding the patella and nerves into the solid metal floor. To his credit, the Chief of Security did not yell out in pain, "where is Patrick," he asked to Tenpenny's lap dog.

"You son of a bitch dirt eating cock sucker," growled Gustavo, his demeanor more uncouth and surly.

With the Security Chief's own knife, J.R. crippled him permanently by stabbing the blade into the back of the knee, and twisting. Gustavo gritted his teeth as the metal tore his flesh, nerves, and ripped tendons from the bone. Colin pulled the blade out quickly, a spurt of blood shooting from the Security Chief's leg as an artery had been cut. Taking the white leather gecko skin belt, J.R. tightened it to the man's thigh to make sure he didn't bleed out before Doctor Banfield saved his life. Gustavo refused to give this man the pleasure of his pain.

"Where is Patrick," asked J.R. again, his voice was soft as the heat of his exhaled breath hit Gustavo's ear like a lover whispering sweet nothings late into the night.

"Tempenny will never let him live now," growled Gustavo, his stomach churning and head pounding from the loss of blood.

Tightening his fist, J.R. hit Gustavo in the back of the head. It bounced off the metal floor of the substation, his body went limp instantly. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative checked that the man was still breathing. He wanted the Security Chief to live with the injury for the rest of his short life. _Now to get out of the Tower_, thought J.R. as he knew the guards would make it near impossible. Then a strange idea crossed his mind and he began to undress the undress the dead guard.

Donning the blood stained white combat armor would not be enough. He beat the dead guard's face in, making it hard to physically recognize him. The ruse would give him a few minutes to make his way out of the ivory tower. Smearing more blood on his bruised face, Colin walked with a forced limp to the metal door.

The locking mechanism opened with the key taken from Gustavo, a loud clank echoing into the substation room. Light blinded him, causing him to cover his eyes with his cut up and bruised hand. Five assault rifles were pointed at his chest as he stopped. J.R. dropped the guard's assault rifle, blinking as he saw now he was on the main concourse and the substation was one of the many doors that led off to the side near the shops.

"Wanderer's Fuck, it's one of our own," said a guard in white combat armor.

"Where's Gustavo," asked another, "where is the prisoner?"

"Get Doctor Banfield," croaked Colin as he pretended to stagger, "I…fuck…I need air…fucking hell, Gustavo need Banfield! The fucking animal!"

"Tell us what happened, Joe," ordered a guard as others went to get the doctor and check out the substation.

Two white armored guards came running out of the room, puking onto the concourse floor. More guards rushed to cordon off the area. Residents of Tenpenny Tower shrieked in disgust as Colin stumbled and walked to the main door. Trying to get Patrick now would be a suicide mission. Opening the heavy door, just ajar enough for him to slide out, he walked a few steps as the main force of security rushed past him and threw open both doors. Only one guard remained at the automated gates. She looked at him in horror because of the all the blood on him and the condition of his face and hands. Colin made certain to slow his pace with his fake limp.

J.R. took her shock to his advantage, "I didn't…sign up for…this shit," he said dropping the side arm holster and pointing to the gate, "permission to…leave."

"Chief said to not let anyone out," replied the female guard in a soft voice.

"Chief just got…torn apart by…that Megaton dog," answered Colin as he faked a sob, looking at his own bloodied hands and bending over to catch his breath. "I'm getting…the fuck out…while I can."

"Is he dead," her question showed concern in her face.

"It will haunt my sleep…forever," answered the Operative as he stared out past the gate in a faraway stare. _Perhaps he was putting it on too thick_, he thought just as the loud buzz and clanks of the automated gates opened. He moved through it without a glance at the woman again. With his one open eye he saw the tent city of Slagertown and made his way with purpose.

"This is going to hurt," warned the wasteland medic as he held J.R.'s nose.

"Fucking set it," ordered the Brotherhood Operative.

In a second with a loud snap, the medic re-broke the nose and set it. He was bleeding again but bared the pain. Colin pushed the doctor away and grabbed a bottle of liquor. Drinking it in large gulps, he dulled the pain enough. As he slumped back, the wasteland medic a brahmin steak on his bruised face. The bottle in his hand was the only weight he felt. Turning the bottle around, his one good eye caught the stamp of the Virginia Economic Consortium. VEC Whiskey in Slagertown was not common, unless if it was contraband. Holding the steak to his face, he stood up and walked out the medic's tent.

The doctor yelled at him to sit down, kicking the dirt as J.R. didn't come back. Instead, he walked to the large tent in the middle of town. The one person he needed to talk with would be there. As he entered, the usual light air was filled with tension as he saw delegates from the VEC standing in front of the assembled Slags. Families sat at the tables with body language that showed unrequited rage. Farmer and Grant sat on a bench together, the shop keep held out his hand to which J.R. placed the contraband whiskey. Bottle and contents were stashed under the table at the feet of Grant, unseen by the VEC. Colin sat down nest to Farmer. The giant of a man was sweating as the woman from Corridor Ninety – Five was talking.

"Change is not to be feared, but appreciated and accepted. The Consortium will provide, just as we have for all the towns on Corridor Ninety – Five," the leader of the local VEC said as she held her arms open in a welcoming manner. "Growing pains are to be expected, but once those hurdles have been overcome, progress comes fast. It will be up to you, whether you want to be prosperous compared to being unable to survive in the wastes…"

"What is this," hissed Colin to his friends.

"Wide scale theft," whispered back the shop keep as he kept his attention to the VEC despite their vague speech. No questions were allowed. The Consortium was telling the Slags to accept their rule and stay alive. A conquest without armies or even violence; if the people of Slagertown fought back, they would have been massacred by the combined force of the VEC and Tenpenny goons because they lacked weapons and training. When the VEC representatives ended the meeting and dispersed the crowd back to their work or tents.

Grant, Farmer, J.R., and several other people from the town met up at the general store, Lucky's. The shop keep locked the bolt on the door, making sure no VEC representative was going to turn up, or was among the group. Going behind the counter, Grant lifted up a crate of items with the stamp of the VEC burned into the wood. One of the men popped open the crate, glass bottles filled with amber liquor and protected by foodstuff remains. The brahmin steak was still compressed to his bruised face.

"You fucks raided the VEC caravan," the statement was filled with outrage as J.R. ripped a bottle from one of the townsfolk's hands and threw it at Grant.

"Raided is a strong…," Farmer began but Colin stopped him with a one armed haymaker to the gut. The muscled giant fell to his knees, to everyone's shock.

"They tortured me and still have Patrick!" His one good eye showed a wild glare in it as he turned to Fairtrade, "all because you raided a VEC BOOZE caravan!"

"They took Patrick," stammered Grant as he sat down nearly blinded by a spoken punch. "But…why?"

"Tenpenny and I made a deal, Megaton and the Tower were going to part ways on good terms," the adrenaline in his blood was pumping hard. "The must have thought I was working with you lot. They wanted to know who did the raid!"

Colin's hand had grabbed Grant's collar, pulling the man close, "I swear I didn't know," pleaded Fairtrade as he looked to the men and women in his shop.

"Who told you," asked J.R. in a calm voice that intoned force and the willingness to use force.

"I found the information," Grant admitted, casting his eyes down at Colin's hands. "Someone had tucked the note under my door. It was an official letter of transportation with the VEC seal on it."

"And you didn't question it?!" Indignation rose in J.R.'s throat as he released Grant and punched the counter with his still bruised and cut hands.

"We saw it as a gift," whispered Farmer, having regained his wind.

"It was all a set up," growled Moriarty as he put it together. "They used the raid as the reason to conquer you all, seize your shop, imprison me, kidnap Patrick, and possibly start a war with Megaton. Shit."

"Does this…what are you saying," Grant held his friend by the shoulder to steady J.R.

"I need to call in that favor," stated J.R. as he searched for something, "I need a gun."

"What are you gonna do with a gun," Fairtrade looked at his friend with concern and uncertainty.

"Someone needs to stop…this madness," answered J.R. as he began to pull at his hair.

"Killing Tenpenny will not get the VEC out of Slagertown, prevent a war with Megaton, or get Patrick back!" Grant stared into Colin's grey eyes with piercing clarity.

Not being able to shoot his way out of the situation marked the real difference for him compared to any other Brotherhood of Steel member. Moriarty's body was racked with tension and to battle his anxiety he paced back and forth. Fairtrade watched his friend, his eyes moving with Colin's steps. At one instant, the contemplating man stopped and punched the wall hard. Shaking his still bruised and batter faced, hi massaged the now aching knuckles as he continued to pace. Farmer was talking with some of the other locals that milled around the shop in an assembled group.

"Will you fucking assholes keep it down," ordered Grant as he kept an eye on Moriarty Junior.

"If he can get the VEC out of here, why not try?" Farmer voiced as the others nodded along, while a few looked skeptical.

"What about Patrick? Quit thinking about yourselves," the rebuke was meant to shame them and relieve the pressure off Colin, "we can solve our own issues, but I owe this man my life twice over and must help him recover that boy."

"Who knows the area best," J.R. was not looking at the townsfolk, his forehead was pressed to a support beam of cool metal in the shop.

No one answered, Farmer shuffled his foot into the ground, "I know someone," answered Grant as he looked to the others.

"Take me to them," said J.R. as he turned to look at everyone, "if I can find a way to get the VEC out of Slagertown, I will. But I need to find Patrick as well, and deal with a broken contract."

"Farmer, come with us, no weapons. Ezmi, can you look after my shop and make sure none of those VEC bastards try to claim it," asked Grant to a young auburn haired woman with a wide set of hips.

The large burly man grumbled but unbuckled his belt and placed his ancient, rusted, and ill cared for gun on the shop counter. Grant did the same. The shop keep made to help J.R. walk, but the Brotherhood of Steel Operative pushed his outstretched hands away. All three headed to the Warrington Station, Farmer rubbing his hip wishing for his gun. Colin figured out fast that Fairtrade was going to get the information from the ghouls.

"Now I don't need a' fuss," warned Grant, the words focus on Farmer, "these ghouls are a decent lot, for the most part. They aren't contagious, or feral, just cap mongers."

"Glade tah know that, now I just need to worry about being dinner now," Farmer deadpanned as the metro tunnel sank into darkness.

Neither Grant, nor J.R., wished to correct Farmer's comment. When they reached the gate to the ghoul stronghold, they were greeted by two guards that held them in place at gun point. More security had been put in place since their last visit nearly a week ago. Michael Masters came to the gate quickly, his motorcycle helmet on along with a full ammo pack tied to his hip as he held a submachine gun. His broken and rotted blue gray lips were turned down in a scowl. The ghoul let them in and as they stepped into the subway terminal. Distant pops from guns echoed down the tunnels. Warrington Station was under siege.

"Do you know the can of worms you opened, kid?" Masters looked to Colin directly, the accusation hanging in the air, "Tenpenny guards have flooded down in the tunnels trying to find you."

"Why would they think I was here," J.R. asked as he used his one good eye to look around the ghouls running around in tattered clothes, guns slung around their shoulders and chest like a rag tag army.

"They weren't too wrong as you are here now," replied Masters as a group of five ghouls ran past holding a sixth that moaned from unseen wounds.

"Perhaps I can help, but I need some information," informed the Operative as a ghoul on the second level of the subway station began to fire a minigun.

Metal casings slipped through the cracks and grates of the secured rampart, "WHITE COATS," yelled the lookout as many ghouls ran into defenses on the bottom floor.

One white hot casing fell through the second floor and hit Farmer on the neck. He swore loudly as he held his burned and blistering skin. When a flash of white combat armor was seen ducking from cover to cover, the ghouls would pop off a few rounds from their antique weapons, their shooting discipline was due to their lack of ammunition. The only ammo in large supply was five millimeter cartridges, allowing for continued use of the minigun. After a few more pops, the lookout yelled for the all clear. A small ghoulish girl, possibly one who turned as a teenager after the bombs fell, ran to Masters' in her frayed hoodie and patchwork jeans that were tucked into her boots.

"They've taken Checkpoints A and C, Blake's Checkpoint is still harassing them from behind," she relayed, her half missing nose running with mucus.

"Alexia and Cisco were brave, gather some ammo and medical supplies for Blake," Masters' gave her a reassuring shoulder squeeze and a half smile. "Be brave Dagny, we've survived through worse."

"I know Michael, but they don't even need our tunnels," she couldn't help but stare at the three smoothskins. "Why can't you just leave us alone?"

She stormed off. Sadness appeared in the former scientist's eyes. He turned to the three of them, not offering an explanation as he did not think one was necessary. Pointing to Grant and Farmer, Michael growled out in a voice that spoke to his de facto role as leader, "make yourselves useful and help my people," ordered the ghoul to the smoothskins. Farmer was not one to take orders from a ghoul, but Fairtrade's strong hand on his shoulder discouraged any dissent. J.R. walked with Masters, not saying a word and unsure of where they were going. All the Operative did was listen to the ghoul drawl on.

"We never intended for this place to be our home," commented Michael, "but even these bank tunnels are better than the places some of these people used to live. Tenpenny, the VEC, all smoothskins in general, are all the same. No offense," Masters looked over his shoulder to the son of Moriarty.

"I can understand how it feels to be…stereotyped," concurred J.R. as they continued down the tunnel, past Michael's live in office. They continued on, subbasement doors that were ajar and allowed Colin a glimpse at dozens of ghouls packed into small rooms. The former human beings did not look like their pitiful counter parts in Springvale or Underworld, there was a pride in their slowly decaying eyes and on their irradiated shoulders. Survivors of the Great War, those who first took refuge in subterranean tunnels not unlike the one they now called home. They had not been selected for vaults, they were not the super-rich nor essential for the government. Now J.R. couldn't help but see them as living people persecuted for having survived what would have killed most people. Given a miraculous gift that extend their lives at the cost of their physical appearance, they were neither zombie nor evil. Several of them, like Dagny, were trapped in their teenage bodies from when their bought of ghoulification began.

Wails from the wounded and weeping from their loved ones were the same had they come from any human settlement above aground. Conventional western medicine did not work well with ghoul physiology. Radiation was the only certain healing aide for this lost generation, however it was a double edged sword. When used, the radiation would bring a ghoul closer to point of turning feral. Decreased higher cognitive functions and a dominance of animal instinct made feral ghouls dangerous for all non-irradiated creatures. As humans are social beings, feral hunted and worked in groups, when possible. Cursed with perpetual life, these former humans would spend their whole time gnashing teeth to flesh, tearing limbs from bodies, and prowling for their next prey. The only known cure for a feral ghoul was to end its life by the use of force. J.R. was beginning to differentiate between the two, an aspect not seen in most wastelanders.

Masters looked to the undercover Operative, "if you're going to puke, please don't do it in our home," he requested, the smell of rotting flesh thicker now than in the open air of the secured levels.

The tunnel ended abruptly in an erected chain link fence with secured gate. To the immediate left was a solid metal door with a glowing green screen. Colin moved closer to the chain link fence and heard the familiar sounds of heavy breathing through mouths and shuffling of feet. Silent before the smoothskin approached, the feral ghouls could sense the lack of irradiation and rushed to the gate. Bony, rotted, and gnarled fingers reached through the chain link fence as the ferals moaned and groaned, wanting to rip, tear, and gnaw. Milky white eyes with lips curled back, or completely missing, to bare teeth through the fence wire as the jaws of the horde opened and closed. The sound and smells reminded Colin Moriarty Junior of Dupont Circle where he and his fellow Operatives escaped to Friendship Heights.

"Get inside, NOW," the clicking of fingertips on the terminal unlocked the pneumatic bolts of the metal door.

J.R. walked into the subbasement room and Michael closed the door behind them. The two of them descended a set of stairs that reached a maintenance room, where before the Great War metro tunnel engineers and workers relaxed. Bunk beds, a pool table, several over stuffed arm chairs, and a kitchenette were all shoved into the room. Lighting came from two sources, the flame of the gas burner of the kitchenette and a lantern on the pool table. A female ghoul wearing a dingy spring dress sat at a counter with a vanity mirror, combing the remains of her hair. Near her in an overstuffed arm chair sat a ghoul wrapped in so many blankets it was hard to tell he was there.

"Look, dear, we have guests," said the female ghoul as she turned around to greet the new comers, "Michael, it is so good to see you. Who is your friend?"

"Good to see you too, Bessie. This is Colin Moriarty Junior, of Megaton," introduced Masters as the woman stood up and curtseyed, "Bessie Lyn Philips."

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," J.R. answered as he tilted in an awkward bow.

"A smoothskin with manners, he must want something," barked the man from the arm chair as he shifted in the blankets to remove a knitted cap from his head, a shock of red hair showing on his decaying white skin. Light blue eyes penetrated through J.R.'s grey orbs, there was no nose to speak of on the ghoul's face, just an empty black hole.

"Colin may have a solution to our…problem…with Tenpenny," conferred Michael as he turned to J.R., "but he needs some information."

"Just another little shit, like all smoothskins, think you can call the shots," the red haired man said as he curled up into the blankets more.

"I'd like to know who I am talking with," the question was open for anyone to answer.

"You know who I am, and if you're going to shoot, get it over with now!" The ghoul with blue eyes snarled as he stared at J.R. for a few seconds, neither doing anything, "fucker agonizes over the decision like the last bastard."

"Roy, the only reason I brought this kid down here is that he's wanted by Tenpenny more than you ever were," explained Masters as he looked to Bessie, pleading for her to help in the situation. "I know I missed judged that other smoothskin, but Moriarty has already proven himself in opening trade outside of the tunnels."

"No," answered Roy Philips, staring long and hard at Michael Masters.

"Tenpenny has been flooding the tunnels with guards and mercenaries, looking for him and you," reasoned the former scientist as he pointed to the Brotherhood Operative, "at least hear him out."

"Put a thorn in ol' Tenpenny's side did you? What did you do to the bigot?" Roy's face was eager to know how Allistair Tenpenny had been humiliated or hurt.

"A caravan of supplies was raided, he thinks I was a part of that. He kidnapped the kid from Vault Hundred and One that was under my protection, tortured me, is waging a war with you, and has positioned his organized gang into the town outside of his tower," answered J.R. curtly as he looked over the red haired ghoul, "and you're Roy Philips. Funny, I thought you were dead."

"Nothing upsets that shriveled English prick like losing caps, unless if it's losing money to those he deems inferior." Masters offered with a smile.

"Gustavo did a number on you," commented Roy, liking the idea of two smoothskins beating on one another.

"I returned the favor before I escaped," J.R. rejoined with a smirk, "but why would the great Roy Philips care about Gustavo?"

"You question me, smoothskin? I am over two hundred years old!" Bellowed the ghoul as he broke into a coughing fit. Bessie tried to help by rubbing his back as he coughed and choked. The red headed ghoul pushed her away, "enough, Bessie, enough it was…just a tickle in my…throat."

"You listen to me, Philips, I don't care if you're sixteen or five hundred fucking years old, that kid from Vault Hundred and One I am responsible for is in the hands of the man we both despise," seethed Colin as his chest puffed out naturally and he braced himself on the pool table with two hands. Masters held a hand on his shoulder, pulling the smoothskin back from Roy.

"Now I can trust you, smoothskin," smiled Roy as Michael let Colin go, "as you can imagine, I need to be careful these days."

"Everyone thinks you're dead," commented J.R. firmly as he leaned back from the pool table.

"That's because I want them to think that," replied Roy as he tried to stand up again, moving slowly as he dropped the blankets. "Seven shots to my chest from that fucking kid, and I didn't even see it coming. That's the worst part."

"And you've been playing dead this whole time," J.R. was beginning to think that this man was a waste of time. _He could have given ghouls hope, order, even direction…_

"I know more about survival than you could ever get from a book. The lie needed to be spread because of who it was that put the bullets in my chest," the bandages still wrapped around his torso under his clothing. "Few people survived the wrong end of a gun with the Lone Wanderer."

"He…why did he shoot you," J.R. was confused.

"The Lone Wanderer sided with Tenpenny," Roy Philips' comment was plan as he thought it was obvious, "like all typical smoothskins."

"We're not all the same…and Tenpenny…is an _issue_," stated Colin, multiple lines of thoughts going through his head, "Patrick, chief among my interests at the moment."

"You look to protect your…boy…I protect and serve this community. I lead them down here when the bombs dropped. All those who could not buy their ways into a Vault or travel to remote areas away from the fallout came to the tunnels for protection. I cared for them, like any beat cop would, but I had no power over radiation. Most died, some changed, and others even lost their minds. It was simple as black and white, protect all those left from those that attack them. So ask yourself, smoothskin, are you here to help my people or are you just going to finish the job started from the Lone Wanderer," said Phillips as he talked of the feral ghouls like lost children.

"I'm getting pulled in directions from many different…concerned parties," replied Colin as he held to the table top, "Patrick comes first, but I swear that I will do everything to help your people."

"A sworn oath from a Moriarty, just as high quality as the smoothskin shithole you call Megaton. I've seen how you treat my people in Springvale," Phillips shook his head as he looked to J.R., "the only plan good enough, one that I can support, will be to turn that tower over to my people."

"At the cost of everyone living in the tower," J.R.'s tone had refused the idea already. "Why not give my kind a better reason to persecute ghouls? If you take the tower by force, they will kill ghouls in every township from here to Point Lookout. The streets will be ankle deep in the blood of your kind."

"Roy, he has a point…," agreed Masters as Phillips threw off all his blankets.

Standing in what looked to be ancient long johns that hugged his emaciated frame, Roy Phillips bellowed, "THOSE BIGOTS HAVE CAST US OUT! Tread on us; threaten our right to life, THEY DESRVE TO PAY!" He doubled over in a coughing fit as his wife, Bessie Lyn Phillips, rubbed his back. The red haired Phillips fell back into his seat, the front legs lifting with the full force of his weight. Bessie went back to covering him in blankets, tucking him into the chair tight. The cough subsided in a few minutes.

"Springvale was started by my father, who does not have a positive understanding of the ghoul – ish people," continued J.R., calmly but realizing that this sentient being in front of him was neither rational, nor fully sane. _Perhaps the radiation treatments have started to take their toll,_ thought the Brotherhood of Steel Operative, "but the cooperation between human and ghoul should not be stopped. I know the strains put on you from Tenpenny and the VEC. What's worse are the stresses and conflict created outside of Tenpenny. He has picked a fight with too many people, Slagertown, Megaton, Springvale, Grayditch, the list just keeps on growing. Warrington Station and Slagertown are natural allies for these reasons, but what you ask would do nothing to further the cause of ghouls."

"Are you willing to wait and see how things turn out with that boy from the Vault?" Roy Phillips commented as he turned his head to the side, looking into the dimly lit lantern, "when it's your own in trouble, you never want to wait…it's been over two hundred years for my people…we've waited long enough."

"I cannot agree to your terms," stated Colin firmly, he would not murder people to put Roy Phillips' on Allistair Tenpenny's thrown.

"All that don't help me and my kind, stand against me," answered Roy, his eyes still transfixed on the lantern.

Perhaps Phillips expected the young man to be dejected and walk away; instead, J.R. rolled his head to massage the straining neck muscles, "the way people talk about you, Phillips, made you seem like the best hope for the ghouls and the worst terror for the ignorant wastelanders. You never need to fear an attack from a smoothskin in your home again, Mister Phillips, because your undoing will be of your own making."

Having attained the last word, Colin Moriarty Junior walked away from the infamous ghoul of the Capital Wasteland. Michael Masters followed him out into the metro tunnel, the feral ghouls were at the chain link fence, groaning and shuffling their feet. Hubris and paranoia warmed the dark soul of Roy Phillips, just as the blankets tucked around him kept his physical form warm. Masters, seasoned in the keen skill of observation as a scientist, could tell he agreed with Colin more than his own kind through the clear and precise logic presented. Phillips had saved him nearly two hundred years ago, their friendship was one of the most cherished relationships the scientist kept. A relationship that seemed to be very costly now, in Michael's still functioning, eyes.

The Brotherhood of Steel Operative stoked his anger by lighting up a cigarette to get nicotine in his blood, as he exhaled in one breath he said, "fucking-stubborn-bastard."

"Roy is stuck in his ways," agreed Masters, the ghoul squinted at the cigarette and the fond memories he had of long nights of laboratory work, "but can you blame the man? He used to walk a tough beat in DC before the Great War. These people followed him to safety before the heavy bombardment…."

"Then what makes you so different from him," J.R. motioned to the substation door and terminal with his thumb as he smoked his cigarette to the very end.

"I'm not," Michael shook his head, comparing his life now to his previous life. "Perhaps it's just the scientist in me, or it's the cop in Roy? Whatever is the reason, Roy will warm up."

"If by warm you mean, ice to fucking freezing," quipped the Operative.

"Kid, Roy's forgotten how to accept help," assuaged the ghoul as he looked at the feral ghouls fenced in.

"He has unrealistic demands," J.R. looked through the chain link fence at the shuffling ghouls who had lost their minds. "I know you've never been treated fairly, but you need to use that for your people to get them out of the tunnels. I don't have a plan to get Patrick, I need a way to get to Tenpenny, and only through him will I get that kid back."

Masters stopped for a long period of time, the cogs in his head turning, "so take him. It might sound farfetched, Colin, but we can kidnap Tenpenny and ransom him for his own release. I remember as a young kid reading about ancient kingdoms and warfare, it was considered honorable to ransom good knights and landed elites. More to the point, it's a great way for us to make some money at Tenpenny's expense."

The people that lived in this tunnel were as much under his protection as they were under Roy's guidance. Old ghouls, new ghouls, men and women looked to Michael Masters on a daily basis. As he healed, removed from the rest of the community, Phillips spent more time with their feral brothers and sisters. Michael tried to push their community out into the world more. His first attempt was a smoothskin that came down into Warrington Station. Early in the Lone Wanderer's life outside of the Vault, he made the decision to kill Roy Phillips instead of allowing the feral ghouls under the ghoul's command to rampage through the ancient vacation site. _There must be another way; I am not Roy Phillips_, thought Masters as he racked his brain.

"Colin, Tenpenny likes to lure out the ferals in the train yard as a bit of sport," his voice was a low growl, the best attempt at a ghouls' whisper. "He shoots ghouls as they attempt to reach the live bait he hangs up there. Most of the time it's a mole rat, or some other creature…my guess is that is where we would find Patrick. The question is going to be when."

Holding out his hand to the ghoul, a gesture that was not common, J.R. said, "thank you, Michael. I'm going to follow up on this, you may be hearing from shortly."

The smile from the ghoul flickered briefly on his face, "I'm going to hold you to it, kid."

Tenpenny's white armored guards had retreated from the tunnels. The ghoul community was hurt but safe for now. Farmer was hauling ammo up to the second rampart. Grant was helping the ghoul in charge of dispensing the medical supplies. The shop keep wiped his hands off on his shirt as the Operative approached him. Blood covered his shirt from some amputations that needed to be performed and his limited medical skill honed from years of caravan travels helped during the Tenpenny attack. A few guards in white armor were left, making their way out of the tunnels in a retreat, the ghouls shooting them in the back as they fled.

"You were talking with Masters for a while," Fairtrade picked up a damp cloth to better wash the blood caked under his nails.

"The meeting was…interesting, to say the least," informed J.R. as he brushed his dark black hair back with his hand.

"What's the story, can the ghouls help?" Farmer asked, having returned to the only other smoothskins.

"He's given me an idea, but currently he has important issues down here," Moriarty pointed out the siege of the ghoul fortress they just went through, several rag wearing women began to clean the blood off the floor as others went to reclaim the fallen supplies of dead Tenpenny guards.

"What's the game plan, J.R.," asked Grant, moving the subject on.

"How many guns do you think we can muster up," J.R. asked to both Farmer and Grant.

Looking at each other, the Slagertown townsmen calculated quickly, "all the people will help…but we…just don't have a massive amount of fire power."

"And the VEC does," voiced J.R.; "We will just have to… _relinquish_ it from their ownership."

"There are around eight VEC living out of a caravan encampment to the south," informed Farmer, Grant slapped him upside the head.

"More are on the way, in two weeks," added Grant.

J.R. tapped his chin with his index finger as he looked to the ground, "gather all the people you can trust. We need to meet in the shop tonight. It'll give me a chance to prepare a strategy."

"Why do I have the feeling you've done this before," Grant looked at the Operative as Colin just smiled.

Grant Fairtrade was limited in his options to making any more room in his shop. All the shelves that weren't bolted down were pushed against the walls. The little stock Grant had was under lock and key in his personal apartment. As one of the only standing structures in Slagertown, which wasn't canvas cloth on poles, Fairtrade's shop became the headquarters for the local resistance against the VEC and Tenpenny. His neighbors milled around the floor, not used to seeing their local shop completely empty.

Grant's checkout counter served as a desk with different odds and ends to serve as points of interest in a three dimensional map. An ancient dirty lunchbox represented the Virginian Economic Consortium's armored caravan. Two cracked mugs facing the southwest were mobile tents that Colin had scouted at the VEC encampment. It was typical caravan procedure to hold at a defendable area with more than one exit route in case of a raid.

"This will no doubt be tricky, but if followed to the letter, would mean no casualties on our side," J.R. moved around a few rocks into the makeshift three dimensional model. "There are three thugs that stay with the caravan at all times. This caravan is pulled by six brahmins yoked together because it is an armored box on wheels. Six wheels, in fact, made of metal rimmed on wood attached to fixed axels. Bricks are under the wheels to prevent them from rolling in any direction while encamped. It is the goal, this armored caravan is our target.

"Our target, the metal encased caravan, has one door that is locked from the inside," continued the Brotherhood of Steel Operative with is insight gained through keen observation while scouting. "Three barred windows are on each side, enough to point a gun out of, but not enough to get into the caravan. The VEC have four tents set on the slope opposite the cliff face, with a large fire pit between in the center of the encampment. The tents are a typical yurt formation…"

"What the fuck is a yurt," one of the Slagertown locals asked from the crowd watching the three dimensional display as J.R. moved coffee mugs.

"It's an older style tent," explained Fairtrade as a former caravaner, drawing a circle in some dust. "About twelve paces across with a pole in the center to raise the roof up…we called them yurts because you can shove up to ten people in one at a time."

"And the first thing you ask in the morning is, 'y'hurt?'" Joked J.R. as he delivered the punch line to a few chuckles and snickers from the crowd, "thanks for the lesson, Professor Fairtrade. Going up the pathway on the slope side will not be worth it, they out gun us and will have the high ground. However, the VEC's biggest assumption is that the cliff is their best defense. We will have to climb the rock face in order to gain any advantage."

"You're fucking nuts," exclaimed several of the locals as others murmured.

"It can't be done," said Farmer as he shook his head firmly.

"It can be done, and it will be done if we want to get those weapons," encouraged J.R. as he lay on the table rope, rusted railroad spikes, and a hammer. "Back in the day, when I caravanned at the Blue Ridges, we needed to bridge gorges and cliffs. The youngest and most expendable were sent to climb those rock faces and string up temporary plank ways before more permanent bridges could be built. Now does anyone among you have that experience?"

Grant and Colin raised their hands, and to their surprise three others raised theirs as well. An older man that had blond hair with streaks of grey that frizzed out at all ends as if he had been electrocuted. Describing him as an ancient lion would be the best way J.R. could convey the combination of pride, strength, and his ridiculous hair that included a full beard. A younger boy with similar hair, but clearly less confidence stood at his side. The cub's muscles had not yet gained the compact coiled structure of his father's, but had grown up on the caravan routes like most settlers of Slagertown and had an untamed rage in his eyes.

The third person was a woman near Colin's age, in her mid-twenties. She was a tall, trim, wiry built individual that had definition in her forearms denoting years of climbing experience. Her skin was dark black, making her eyes and teeth look whiter to J.R. Impressions from the googles she wore on her shaved head made her look like there were another set of eyes she possessed. Small scars could be seen on her skin, typical of the scraps and fights one got from roaming the Capital Wasteland. These four, and Colin, would be the team to climb the cliff face. The other locals were going to help once the main targets had been taken. If this raid were to be successful, then the element of surprise could not be lost to the enemy.

Five people, for the most part unconnected save for their one need for gaining the items stored on the top of cliff, met as the light waned from sky. Cold wind and flurries whipped around them, none of the climbers wore coats because the extra fabrics was dangerous when climbing. Three of them could not help but stare at the only female in their group as she tightened her rope harness. Her chest was wrapped tight, which made her small breasts push up on each breath. J.R. didn't take an in depth notice, only because his mind was on the armored caravan. Colin reached down, rubbing the sand into his palms to fill all the cracks and crevices of his skin. Grant was tying up a length of rope between them, so if one should fall the others could swing them back to a rock. Having all climbed before because of the caravans they worked for in the past. They all had a belt with bent iron hook and roped holds around the legs. J.R. had to quickly make out of an old belt and some scrap metal from Fairtrade.

A knot was tightened around the woman's hook as he took the final spot right behind her on the support line, "at least I'll have something to look at on the way up."

With the flat of her palm, the woman smacked Grant on the back of his head, "remember, you're anchor here, Fairtrade."

Colin turned around to them, "listen up, because I'm only going to say it once. We are all reliable for each other. I don't know how most of you climb, but we are going to take it slow and safe. Most of all, no chit chat. We need to be silent, this whole plan requires stealth. Are we ready?"

Four heads nodded as J.R. began the climb by getting a foot hold and pushing up to search for hand grips to hold on. The man with a blond mane of hair began his assent after the Brotherhood of Steel Operative, his son following. At twelve feet up, Colin took out an iron railroad spike and pushed the point with all his strength into a natural crevice in the rock face. He then removed a hammer from a loop in his harness, leather wrapped around the mallet to soften the sound of each strike as he drove the spike deeper into the crevice. A muted thud echoed against the rock as some pebbles and dust fell down on those below him. Tying off second rope, the one used to help lead the others, to the spike acted as a pylon on their journey up to the caravan.

Long gone were the days when one climbed a rock face in free form with a rope tied to your belt. The second rope system anchored on pylons was stable, safer, and insured that any mistake doesn't necessarily mean death. Scrap metal hooks on the belt harnesses were attached to the second rope as the climbers proceeded up. If J.R fell, the secondary rope would pin him to the wall and prevent him from falling on the others. As they climbed, Colin drove pylon after pylon of old railroad spikes every ten to twelve feet. The plan had figured for ten pylons to make it to the top of the cliff. His feet rubbed against the rock face, looking for holds and cracks to gain a footing to push up higher.

Gravel fell from time to time into the graying blond man's eyes, stopping his pace as he blinked the grains of sand from his amber eyes. Like J.R., the older man preferred to climb bare handed while his son and the, comparatively, younger woman preferred to wear gloves. Muscles burned in his old legs, upper shoulders, and forearms. Old age didn't suit him. In his youth, he would have covered the cliff in two hours without rope or safety gear. He looked down to his son, a flicker of disapproval at the corners of his lips due to the softer life his offspring had though appreciative that his hard work had been able to supply for his kid well. The Virginian Economic Consortium had changed their fortunes when all independent contractors had been barred from Corridor 95. Now his son was getting a taste of his old man's life, a mouth full of gravel at a time.

Young and bold, the kid of the old lion thought he knew most of everything in the world. He noticed his dad looking down at him with that strange expression that filled his gut with despair. _Always looking down at me_, thought the kid, _can't he ever be happy? It's like he always expects me to fail!_ His thoughts were not on climbing, a classic mistake of novice mountaineers. Wandering thoughts took his attention away from the safety protocols that had been put in place. His hand absent mindedly failed to switch the harness hook to the secondary rope pinned to the rock face as he passed a new pylon. Tethered only to his dad and the woman below him, he reached up to the next rock. Gloved fingers couldn't feel the softness of the rock through thick brahmin leather.

As he squeezed and pushed up with his feet, the rock crumbled in hand and the shifting weight caused him to fall. With no hook harness to hold him to the safety line, he feel from the wall down the length of rope that tied him to his father. Panic took over the kid as he thrashed his legs and arms around, trying to grasp on anything to prevent gravity's effect. The loosening of the rope above the woman caught the attention of the former female caravaneer. In the second she looked up to see the falling kid, she was hit in the face with a flailing foot.

Dazed and confused, she lost her grip on the safety rope. Her bottom lip was split open and pouring blood as her facial features began to swell. Trying to focus on the rock, she swayed as the weight of the kid pulled at her, and his father's, waist. Her vision blurred from seeing two separate images to clarity and back to two images. The strength in her legs weakening as she slowly fell from the rock face while her safety harness remained connected to the safety rope. Hugging the rock wall, the weight of the kid dragged both her and his father down.

The graying blond mane father felt the tug of the fallen weight. He looked down to see the flailing limbs of his son take out the bald dark skinned woman and the slow swinging she did to maintain contact with the rock wall without becoming dead weight. Holding on with his feet, pushing away from the rock face with his legs, he held his hand out to motion the anchor to stop climbing. With his other hand, he pulled on the rope leading to the foreigner from Megaton. J.R. turned his head back as he hung onto the rock face, his hand grasping the railroad spike pylon. Without emotion due to his dogged determination, which paralleled well hidden anger in the father's opinion, the Megaton man mouthed for the father to solve the issue. Using a soft voice, the father tried to calm his son.

"Stop flailing…Newt, I'm going to get you out of this," he soothed as he tried to get his son's eyes and ears. It took a few minutes for the kid to calm down enough to pay attention to his father, the rope between them making the son look like a marinate missing a few strings; "breathe slowly and allow your body to move closer to the rope."

With trepidation, Newt let his body slowly sway as he was held by the waist to his father and the semi-conscious woman below him. The secondary rope, pinned to the rock face by the pylons, came closer to him. His left hand on the metal hook slickened with his sweat, anticipation etched on his face as his father directed him. The metal hook snagged the taught rope with a second swing, a vibration shooting up and down the taught safety line. The young man's body shaking as he held the rope tightly, in fear.

"Take it slow, and find your footing," coached the father as he kept his amber eyes locked with his son.

The young man's feet pressed to the rock face of the cliff. Gravel and pebbles fell as the toes of his boots scrambled on the rock ledges. Newt began to panic again, his feet fighting to find a strong hold to push up from. He looked up to see his father and felt determined to show him he could make it. With all the sinewy strength he could muster, the kid planted his feet the wall with knees bent. Pushing up, his wet palms grasped the rocks with force to turn his knuckles white.

"Good, Newt, but hold your position," cautioned his dad as the weight of the semi-conscious girl started to hold him down, "Grant, can you secure Chryslus?"

"Not a problem," replied the shop keep, grumbling to himself as he climbed up to the woman. Her body swayed as he was right under her. Leather tightly bound on her seemed more like a second skin than clothing, her dark complexion visible through the cross stitching of her pant legs. Grant promised himself that if they survived this suicide mission he would get to know Chryslus better.

His gloved hand reached around her midsection as he unhooked the belt from safety rope. She tried to talk, blood still pouring from her lip as she stirred in his arms. Fairtrade hooked her to his harness, guiding her arms around his neck from behind. The warmth of her blood was felt on the back of his neck as she held him tightly as they continued to climb. Worn boots did not block the sharp rocks from pressuring the sole of Grant's feet, now hurting with the extra weight. Climbing was slower with four people and the weakened Chryslus.

J.R. was the first to make it over the cliff to the top of the cliff. No brush, no tree. There were a few old telephone poles in the distance as a semi – circle of tents branched off from manufactured armored caravan with six wheels on three fixed axels. Darkness was their cover, as the sun had receded beyond the horizon. To anchor those climbing up, the Brotherhood of Steel Operative struck a spike into the top of the cliff, tying off the safety rope and bracing himself to a second spike. Digging his heels into the soil, holding the tethered rope of his harness, Colin began to help the climbers up the cliff face as he pulled hand over hand on the rope. Gray and blond hair appeared over the cliff.

The old lion of a man secured himself as he climbed up, joining Colin as an additional anchor to hold the secure the line for his son to climb up. Bruised and scratched up from his fall, the young man pulled himself over the cliff with the assistance of his father. Grant held his position on the ledge as the two men lifted Chryslus off of him and then helped him over. All five climbers removed their harnesses and untangled themselves from the ropes in the protective cover of night. No one had brought any medical supplies, Chryslus had to accept her bleeding and bruised face. Her legs were still weak, but carried her to the nearest rock she could lean against as she tried to see straight. Colin didn't like it, the plan needed five people and with one down any action would harder.

"Kid, you need to guard the girl, make sure she doesn't make a loud noise or one of the guards find her by accident," ordered the Operative as if he were talking to machines.

"You'll need me out there," stated Chryslus, trying to get up but falling down as he legs began to shake.

"We can't risk it," conceded the old lion, handing her low powered twenty two caliber hand gun, "if a guard gets near, take him out. The sound won't be loud enough for the other to hear."

Colin walked up to the man, putting his torture bruised face directly into the old lion's whiskers, "I said no guns."

"Good thing I brought it, then," remarked the man as he and his son pushed past the Operative to the far right side of the armored caravan.

Colin turned back to the mission as he and Grant crouched low to circle around the armored caravan. Amber light glowing from a dying fire wrecked their night vision, but made visibility in the camp easier. Shadows played around the tents, two people in each. Silhouettes of the father and son were seen on the opposite side of the camp. Grant and J.R. slit into the tent flaps of the yurt that was closest to the armored caravan behind two human shadows.

The VEC members wore leather armor, blackened from being tanned and harden over fire. Branded into the shoulder plates were a small 'v' and 'c' linked to a large 'E'. These two guards sat together, scraping of metal utensils on cans and plates. Two two-cap mercenaries were too engrossed in their meal to hear the men behind them. In unison, Grant and Colin lifted their knives. Fairtrade used an old blade that was six inches long with only one sharpened edge. A box cutter blade on a hilt would have a better description. J.R. used a small double edged blade, a trade tool from his caravan days because it was both weapon and utensil. A Brotherhood of Steel issued combat knife with pristine hilt was holstered to his calf, present if needed but hidden from even Grant's view.

In one quick motion, the raised knives attacked the eating VEC mercenaries. J.R. pulled his target's head back by the forehead as he struck the blade between the vertebrae of the neck. Sharpened and double edged, the blade went in smoothly and through the other side of the mercenary's neck, splitting the spinal cord and esophagus. Instant paralysis took the merc as the cold steel was warmed with red blood. Slowly, Colin lowered the dead man's head as he silently pulled the blade out. Grant had slashed his one sharpened edge across his mercenary's throat while covering the man's mouth with his hand to block any noise. It took a while for Fairtrade to cut through the neck, his wrist jerking back and forth to saw the blade through the muscle and flesh. A thin spray of blood shot out from the VEC merc's neck as the wound grew deeper and larger. The merc's detriment, he tried to fight off the shop keeper's attack and only caused the knife to go deeper. After a few seconds, both Grant and Colin were wiping blood from their blades as two mercenaries bleed out into their final meals. They then moved to the next tent.

The old lion wiped his curved knife, a blade modified from a pre – War kitchenware, against his inner thigh. He and his son, Newt, had cleared their two yurts. Sleeping mercenaries made easy targets. Now he hunted one of the foot patrols as he boy held back in position in case something went wrong. The VEC guard smoked a cigarette while leaning against a rock. The blond mane lion walked slowly in a crouch as he held his knife with the blade curved out from the bottom of his fist and pointed to his forearm. Like a large predatory cat, he pounced. One hand yanked the woman's hair and pulled her down to the ground hard. With a quick flick, he forced the blade through her surprised and exposed upper palate as she opened her mouth to scream. Death came instantly as the blade when straight through her skull into her brain.

Two figures approached him, holding assault rifles with handguns tucked into their belts. He could not see their faces but assumed the worst, slinking to the shadows. One of the figures called out for him by name, knew it was Grant. Both looked at the dead guard as the old lion moved back into their view and his son approached from behind. Fairtrade tossed him a handgun as Colin removed wads of cloth that were soaked in brahmin oil and packed with shit. The four of them began to walk to the armored caravan.

"Good job, Sal," commented Fairtrade as they doubled back to check on Chryslus.

All the old lion did was grunt in approval, his eyes not leaving Colin because he still didn't trust the man. Chryslus lay on the ground, he legs skewed as she breathed heavily into the dirt. Newt ran to her and turned her over. She groaned, clearly in pain, as she saw the others.

"Mutha fuckah…came out tah piss…had to fight'em," she panted as Newt dragged her back to the rock to prop her up. "Pushed 'em…over the cliff."

Grant wanted to laugh, both in joy that Chryslus was still alive and at her capability of tossing a man off a hundred and twenty foot cliff, but with the look he got from Colin he knew to keep it to himself. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative handed the young man a handgun, and then he passed out the shit packed wads.

"Just light them and toss them into the caravan," asked Sal as he made no fuss holding stinking brahmin shit and greasy oil.

"Hold position at the caravan doors, let them suffer a bit," said Colin Moriarty Junior as he cocked the assault rifle he stolen from a dead mercenary. "Once they bang on the doors to get out, let them out. Leave them alive, just make sure they don't have a weapon on them."

"Fuck that, let's just kill'em all," asserted Newt as he cocked the handgun the Operative had handed him.

J.R. stepped in front of the kid, his broken nose only inches away from Newt, "you do not kill anyone in that caravan if they are unarmed," growled the Operative, there was no verbal threat because it was implied by tone.

Brushing his hair back with his least messed up hand, J.R. was able to see a small sliver from his swollen eye. Sal looked to J.R., who returned the stare until the old lion back down. Grant decided it was best to stay out of the conflict between two alpha males. Holding his shit bomb gingerly with his bad hand.

"Let's light'em up," suggested Grant.

Biting his inner cheek, Sal agreed and flinched from J.R.'s stare. Using the camp fire to ignite the bundles, all four men rushed to dump the flaming shit bombs in the windows of the armored caravan. Noises inside the box echoed throughout the camp and off the cliff. Rustling, coughing, attempts to stamp out the shit bombs only made the situation worse as smoke and smell filled the enclosed area. Sal and J.R. held their backs to the caravan to prevent those inside from rushing out. Fists and the stocks of guns banged on the door, trying to push their way out as the dark smoke began to roll out of the port holes. Gun muzzles poked out of the windows trying to shoot at what blocked their way, but coughing and pained eyes made their shots hit the ground or continue into the night air.

Newt and Grant slammed the exposed hands of the Virginia Economic Consortium mercenaries to make them drop the weapons they held through the portholes. With an arsenal inside the caravan, these mercenaries could easily pick up more weapons and fire at the doors of the armored caravan. The same metal that protected them from the outside now entombed them to homemade tear gas. VEC mercenaries attempted to pick up the flaming wads of cloth and push them through the portholes, the flames burning their hands. J.R. smiled as he knew these thugs had had enough. He removed himself from the door and motioned for Sal to do the same. The four men formed a semicircle around the armored caravan.

"Come out with your hands high and palms open!" Ordered Colin Moriarty Junior, his assault rifle aimed and ready along with all the others, "I promise you safe passage if you surrender yourselves freely!"

"Fuck you," shouted one VEC guard as he busted through the door wielding a sub machine gun.

The VEC merc didn't even get a round off as all four men lit him up through the smoke and darkness with their combined fire. J.R. knew he dropped the mercenary with a double tap to the skull. Grant, Sal, and Newt all laid shots into the mercenary's midsection because it was an easier target. A sack of meat, once a human life, tumbled down the caravan steps and bled in the sand. Smoke rose from his body and mixed with the dark pungent smell of burning brahmin shit, oil, and cloth. Coughing and swearing came from the armored caravan.

"I promise safe passage to those who come out with their hands raised empty of any weapon," repeated the son of Colin Moriarty, with honor his father lacked.

"We're coming out," announced an older female's voice as a long paused was followed by shuffling fleet. Two women members of the Virginia Economic Consortium came out of the caravan. Their hands were held high and free of all weapons. J.R. had previously seen the woman giving the speech at the town hall tent in Slagertown. Her hair was frizzy with a gray streak starting at the widow's peak and out. The younger girl lacked the traditional armor of a VEC thug, but the symbol of their group was embroidered on her tunic. She shared the same frizzy hair of the more mature woman, denoting a familial resemblance. Instead of wearing it like a mop, the younger woman preferred to wear it in a ponytail that turned into a fuzzy ball. Her skin was also a darker olive complexion than her older relatives.

"Ladies, if you wouldn't mind kneeling on the ground, crossing your ankles, and interlocking your fingers behind your head," ordered the Operative as they did not comply.

The younger woman soured as she looked into J.R.'s eyes, marking him as the leader, "you promised safe passage…."

Her complaint was ended shortly as Newt pistol whipped the young woman across the mouth. She fell to her knees as he family member covered her, trying to protect from further attacks. Colin Moriarty Junior stepped around the woman and grabbed the young man by his throat. Squeezing tightly as his assault rifle fell against his chest held by a shoulder strap. The women cowered in fear, the mature one looking to grab a gun to help their situation. J.R.'s other hand deftly pulled the handgun from his belt and pointed it to the woman's head as he continued to squeeze the young man's throat.

Sal reached out and held Colin's arm, they locked eyes and had a silent conversation. J.R. knew this father was protective of his son, perhaps his only family left. Sal knew that the man before him was more than some random foreigner to Slagertown. With a nod, J.R. released his grip on Newt's neck and Sal took the pistol from his son's hand. Colin stuffed his handgun into his belt and turned to the women. He removed a piece of cloth he used as a handkerchief and handed ito the older woman.

The young woman had a long gash across the lower jaw that the mother now padded to stymie the bleeding; "I apologize for the boy, but before we allow you to go, we need some information."

"That was not part of our surrender," commented the mature woman as the young one stared defiantly at J.R.

"Consider this brief parley part of your unconditional surrender," answered the Brotherhood of Steel Operative as he knelt down to look at his defeated targets, hoping that seeing Tenpenny in such a position would fill him with more joy. "I am not an unreasonable man. Our colleagues will join us shortly and I can provide you medical care and supplies."

"Why would you," in a world where civility lacked in most human engagements, Colin's attitude was an oddity.

"My true enemy is your paymaster, not you. We are both pawns to greater powers and I hope that my treatment of you will be applied to others," he answered as Grant and the looked on with surprise. "Now who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Nelda of Ashland," she answered firmly and then added her title, "Public Administrator for Northlands of the Virginia Economic Consortium. This is my daughter, Arashell."

"Of Ashland," asked Colin as Nelda nodded, "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. I am Colin Moriarty Junior, while I am of Megaton, I do not represent them at this very moment. I have been wronged by Allistair Tenpenny, who now holds my ward hostage, slanders my name, and tortured my body. I hope you will understand my position with your paymaster."

Nelda stared into his eyes as she held the cloth to Arashell's faces, dampening with blood. "How can I help?"

Colin smiled as he turned his head to the other men, "first, I'm going to be honest and tell you that we are taking your weapons and armored caravan, because we need them. You can view this as a raid, if you wish, but these men are not raiders, just simple town folk pushed to the edge. What we really need from you, Nelda, is to understand the relationship between Tenpenny and the VEC. What are their aims?"

"I will not snitch on my homeland," Nelda firmly said as she looked at her daughter, "but Tenpenny is not of our homeland. He pulls the strings, but he doesn't care how we live; that is up to people like myself. Most Virginians have never met the man."

"But you have," pushed J.R. as Nelda looked away.

"He and the devil, Burke, where doing sport shooting." Nelda of Ashland looked pale, "the Comptroller of Richmond, Robbie, was used as…bait. He had not fulfilled their wishes, so that devil tied him up by his ankles at that damned train yard as ferals tore into him. Burke didn't even gag him, his screams still chill my marrow."

"Thank you, Nelda," J.R. knew the train yard she spoke of, townsfolk of Slagertown joined him and began to lash the brahmin to the caravan.

Weapons and supplies began to be taken from the yurts and tossed into the armored caravan. Colin whistled over and Grant gathered several medical supplies and a single brahmin for Nelda and Arashell of Ashland. They stood up slowly, the daughter leaning on her mother as they walked down the cliff to the south on their way back to VEC territory. Behind them, the townsfolk of Slagertown broke down the yurts and recovered all the material they could. Bodies of the dead VEC mercenaries were stripped and thrown into the fire pit, giving them a pyric burial. Colin looked over the cliff at the ivory tower of Tenpenny as the brahmin pulled the six wheeled armored caravan that still smoked lightly from the shit bombs. The fire pit burnt brighter as the bodies of the dead were turned to ash behind Colin Moriarty Junior.

Warrington train yard had been an interchange for passenger cars and private shipping companies. Shipping companies, like DTY Rail, specialized in radioactive waste removal. When the bombs fell, a DTY container car derailed into several passenger cars. Time filled in the gaps as the switching station began to be covered in debris and the tunnels gained people that had been exposed for long periods of high levels of radiation. Occasionally a feral ghoul would stumble out of the tunnels and wind up trapped in the still standing fences of the train yard. Allistair Tenpenny easily modified the area into a shooting range. Roy Philips was angered by the injustice and poor treatment of his people for such a long time.

Guards in white combat armor would open the tunnel gate to allow several of Roy Philips' citizens to run out into this killing field. Screams of some poor fool, usually tied upside down by the broken catwalk, attracted ferals. The second floor of the switching station was still clear of debris and Allistair Tenpenny sat in an overstuffed winged back chair with a high powered sniper rifle like an older gentleman on safari. As if it were a game, the old man originally from the remains of Great Britain, picked off ferals with shots but allowed more than enough through to skin his bait. Bait was tied by the ankles with chains as rope bound the arms behind the back. Upside down with all the blood rushing to the head could only be sustained without long term danger for half a day. However, Allistair Tenpenny's bait never lasted that long at Warrington train yard.

Patrick Keyes blinked his eyes as he saw the world upside down. The strawberry blond teen took in the wreckage around him. Bent train rails, some even broken, along with boxcars and passenger coaches dug into the ground or standing on the track. A thumping noise in his head as his pulse began to race. The Vault teen was never as scared in his life as he watched the white armored guards of his captor open a tunnel gate. He tried to watch them as they ran away to what he perceived as left. Trying to turn, the bounds on his wrists cut his soft skin and a pain shot down his legs. Patrick couldn't help but scream as the pain hurt him to the bone. His eyes went wider in fear as he swayed like a pendulum as the first ghoul shuffled out of the tunnel.

Allistair Tenpenny smiled as he sipped a murky warm water he called tea. His guards, minus the recovering Gustavo, surrounded him in the second level of the switching station. As the gate opened, his bait began to attract his prey, and Tenpenny removed a magazine of .308 ammunition for his sniper rifle. Clicking the bolt back, he took aim slowly and missed with his first shot, burying the round into the side of a boxcar. His brow leapt in surprise as a second shot was heard, not one from his gun, putting the feral down with a round through the chest.

Popping up from the debris, the townsfolk of Slagertown began to protect Patrick as he hung upside down. Grant ran to the catwalk with several other people to get the kid loose as small arms pelted the second level of the switching station. Farmer and Sal were closing off the tunnel as several non-feral ghouls came out of their safe zone. J.R. was flanked by several townsfolk as he opened the door to the second floor of the switching station. A combat shotgun was used to clear the room, disposing every guard except those that surrendered. The townsfolk rshed the guards out of the room as J.R. moved an end table to sit on. Grant final got Patrick lowered as Colin reached out to take a bite of the iguana sandwich the English man favored.

"Mister Moriarty, I dear say this is a surprise," commented the elderly man, brushing off the spackle that dusted his red smoking jacket. "Please, I insist, help yourself."

"How is Gustavo," Colin smiled as the old man knew he was captured, townsfolk guarded the second floor as two ghouls entered the room.

"Tenpenny," growled Roy Philips as Michael Masters held the former cop back, "I'm going to gut you like a BRAHMIN!"

"I don't see need to include such base creatures to our…conversation," Tenpenny refused to even look at the two ghouls and only addressed the Brotherhood of Steel Operative.

"Roy Philips and Michael Masters are a part of this action as much as I am." J.R. nodded to the two ghouls, making Masters relax but Philips remained agitated, "you kidnapped my ward. You had me tortured. Soured the relations between the Tower and Megaton on a trumped up pretext. You persecute the ghouls of Warrington Station; invite expansionist slavery programs to the Capital Wasteland. The treaty between Megaton and your tower is finished, but on my terms. However, you are now at the mercy of your neighbors."

"I have no neighbors," Tenpenny's true hatred coming to the foreground. "None are my equals!"

"Think again, Al," Colin smiled, loving the pained look on the old man's face. "Consider yourself captive and held for ransom. Once your caps have been received, than you shall be let go. But I think knowing that a bunch of Slags and Ghouls got the best of you will torture you worse than anything you could have thrown at me or my people."

"Bullshit, this motherfucker need to die," exclaimed Roy Philips as he pulled out a knife.

Michael Masters tried to wrestle with his friend but the more experienced ghoul pushed the former scientist to the side. A wild expression crossed the rotting visage of the former cop as he lounged at Allistair Tenpenny with knife in hand. J.R. jumped in the way and wrestled with Philips' strong grasp on the blade. The six chest shots from the Lone Wanderer had sapped the power of this ghoul. Colin brok Roy's wrist easily, turning the blade toward the ghoul's sternum and pushed forward hard. The ancient blade forced its way into the old ghoul's chest, scrapping ribs as it stopped deep in the Philips' black heart. The noseless face showed shock at his own death. Stumbling back, the ghoul slid down the wall, Roy Philips stared at the hilt protruding out of his chest as he laid flat, head tilted against the wall of the switching station. Dying in the Warrington train yard where many of his citizens, addled by radiation, had lost their lives to the gun of Allistair Tenpenny. Colin Moriarty Junior finished what the Lone Wanderer had started slightly over two years ago.

Masters ran to his friend, his hand pressing at the wound as he removed the blade and checked for a pulse. The ghoul's gaze saw Tenpenny reach for his sniper rifle and warned J.R. Colin picked up the blade and tossed it Allistair's right hand. With a howl, the old English man held his hand up, the Roy's knife running straight through the nearly translucent flesh of the boney hand. The Brotherhood of Steel Operative held Tenpenny down as he removed his belt. Strapping the leather around the forearm of the tyrant in the smoking jacket created a temporary tourniquet to stop the bleeding. Picking up the sniper rifle, Colin tossed it away to the far end of the room as Tenpenny grimaced, holding his arm to return to the overstuffed arm chair. The dead body of Roy Philips slouched against the wall of the room.

"Are we okay," Colin asked of Masters as he looked at the ghoul.

Masters had no tear ducts to cry, nor would he, "what do I tell Bessie Lyn?"

"What everyone else needs to hear, that Roy was killed by Tenpenny and that I disabled the old man," calmly said the Operative as the old man held his arm.

"No one will ever believe it," snapped Tenpenny as he cradled the bleeding hand.

"The only reason you are alive is for your caps. Roy unfortunately could never give up his hatred. You on the other hand, pardon the pun," Moriarty smiled at his comment. "You have a value, Mister Tenpenny. A grotesque, avarice, and senile old man worth an immeasurable weight in caps. Nothing will hurt you more than losing your wealth to those you deem unworthy. And after you see the Ghouls and Slags become rich, that is when I'll be back. I'll be back to show you that Allistair Tenpenny can be touched, no matter how high or how protect you might think you are in that tower."

"Mister Moriarty, I will see your overly large bollocks on a silver platter," swore Allistair Tenpenny as townsfolk of Slagertown and Michael Masters escorted him to their mobile holding cell, the VEC armored caravan.

J.R. stood outside the second level of the switching station and lit a cigarette. He desperately needed the smoke after all that had transpired. Staring out at the train yard, he realized he wanted nothing more than to return to Alexandria Arms for a bit of rest. However, his deep cover assignment required him to stay in the field. Perhaps he could convince his dad to allow for a vacation after all that happened. Colin Moriarty Junior walked down to the train yard, Grant was still with Patrick Keyes as the bonds and chains were removed.

The Vault teen raised his head to look at Colin. Shaken, the young man stood as Colin Moriarty Junior opened his arms to hug his ward. Patrick punched the Operative in the still brutalized face with a heavy right hook. J.R. staggered back in shock, not expecting Keyes to have such a strong punch. Fairtrade and the other townsfolk were just as surprised to see the man they had come to respect being assaulted. Patrick got one more punch in before Farmer held him back, forcefully.

"You BASTARD!" Yelled the teenager as the large man from Slagertown held him around the chest with arms. "You left me in there! Burke tortured me for what you did to Gustavo!"

Patrick didn't have any bruises on his face, but the unseen bandages under his jumpsuit covered cuts and burns on his arms and chest. While the head of security was still recovering, Mister Burke took the pleasure of hurting Colin's ward. Sleep deprivation, physical torture, and psychological torture were all used on the kid from the Vault in the weeks he had been held in the ivory tower. He was told that Colin had left him as trade for his own release, that the only future he had was ghoul show or as a slave. All of these ideas became more torture than physical pain caused by Burke. Despite now being saved, when he saw that first ghoul shuffling to him, the Vault kid internalized his own morality. Death, fear of being alone, and loathing of the man who left him so exposed seeped into his mind and being.

"This man has gone through hell and high…" Grant began to defend as he pointed to J.R. and looked at Patrick's light blue eyes that were now dulled with the complete lack of all hope or life.

"Save your breath, Fairtrade, kid's already made up his mind," said the Operative as he sat on some debris in the train yard, dusting soil from his pants and flicking his bent cigarette away. "Long as he is alive to hate me, I'm good."

Sal helped Colin up, dusting off his shirt as J.R. righted himself. He would return to Megaton, Patrick to the Vault, and life would return to normal for the most part. The old man with the lion like mane of hair looked into J.R.'s eyes. _Things won't be the same for Patrick, he's lost that forever now_, thought the Operative. The wasteland had damaged Keyes and J.R. felt responsible for that. Now he will have to teach the Vault 101 teen how to deal with the hardship he's experienced. Suffering was all J.R. seemed to have in abundance these days.


End file.
